


To Build a Home

by BeanieBaby



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Credence does not die, Graves is allergic to feelings, M/M, Most people's marks look like their soulmate's Patronus, Newt is a Cinnamon Roll, Newt takes him in as an apprentice, Newt's creatures try to play matchmaker, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, too precious for this world
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-02 04:44:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 40,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8651560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeanieBaby/pseuds/BeanieBaby
Summary: Newt Scamander's mark is in the form of a panther, wild and ferocious, the black ink running elegantly down his wand arm and ending with the thick tail wrapped possessively around his wrist. Percival Graves' corporeal Patronus just so happens to be a silver panther. Too bad the magical community in America has discarded the notion of soulmates and soul marks altogether, and Newt's creatures really aren't helping the situation by repeatedly stealing Graves' things.   (Canon-divergence where Newt rescues the real Percival Graves, they face off Grindelwald together, and Newt decides to take Credence in and set up shop above Kowalski's bakery, much to Mr. Graves' frustration.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [take a deep breath (and let it go)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8624551) by [lincesque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lincesque/pseuds/lincesque). 



> **Newt's mark is actually a Wampus, which is the magical version of the panther and is the animal for one of the Four Houses of Ilvermorny.**
> 
>  
> 
> My headcannon for the four Ilvermorny houses:
> 
>  **Thunderbird:** Tina Goldenstein and Queenie Goldstein. House colors: yellow and white. Favors adventurers. (The student preferences are actually on the Wiki, but I made up the House Colors)
> 
>  **Horned Serpent:** Seraphina Picquery. House colors: purple and gray. Favors scholars. 
> 
> **Wampus:** Percival Graves. House colors: black and maroon. Favors warriors. 
> 
> **Pukwudgie:** House colors: green and brown. Favors healers.

Newt Scamander does not like North America.

For as much as they toot their own horn about freedom and human rights, MACUSA legislation on Wizard-Muggle relations are horribly outdated. Sadly, he can’t say the same about their views on soul marks. Whereas British wizards and witches still believe in the ancient magic that binds two souls together, the magical community in America has discarded the notion of soulmates and soul marks altogether.

Perhaps this is the reason why Newt dislikes the country immediately upon setting his foot down on solid ground. The queasy feeling he’d attributed to seasickness intensifies as he shuffles toward the customs gate. The fingers of his left hand instinctively gravitate toward his right wrist where the tail of the great beast that is his soul mark is imprinted into the skin.

Newt’s mark is in the form of a panther-like creature, wild and ferocious, the black ink running elegantly down his wand arm and ending with the thick tail wrapped possessively around his wrist. Over the course of the years, his mark had become a great source of comfort and strength. Newt would sometimes allow his fingers to stray to the panther’s tail, rubbing absently at the skin as if he could somehow feel the echo of his soulmate’s mind through the contact.

“Nice tattoo,” The customs officer comments when Newt’s sleeve hikes up a few inches in his haste to fasten the clasps of his suitcase.

He avoids the man’s eyes and mutters a soft “thanks.”

The feeling of unease does not go away. Newt is so distracted by the unexplained dread that he mixes up his suitcase with that of a Muggle named Jacob Kowalski. Things quickly escalates when he loses track of the surprisingly agile Mr. Kowalski and gets arrested by one Porpentina Goldstein, undercover MACUSA agent.

Counting this most recent incident, Newt has lost his Niffler for a whopping total of fifteenth times, eight of which had resulted in some form of bodily injury. Maybe it really was time to question his life choices.

Tina, a grim-faced and impatient brunet who is almost as tall as Newt's gangly self, escorts him past the burnished golden gates of the MACUSA New York headquarters and straight up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Aside from a small cluster of people bent over a moving map of the city, the office is empty. 

“Mr. Graves, sir,” Tina has Newt by the arm when she calls out the name. 

A middle-aged man dressed in a sharp black three-piece suit looks up at the sound of her voice. He has dark hair, combed impeccably back from a sternly handsome face, and equally dark eyes. 

“Tina,” The way he says her name makes the hairs on the back of Newt’s neck rise. “Who is this?”

Newt's mother had once told him that nothing could compare to the wonderful rush of warmth one feels upon meeting their intended for the first time. The sight of Percival Graves does not evoke any warmth in his chest. There’s a horrible feeling of _wrongness,_ as if he's looking at a flat, two-dimensional caricature of a man, something lifeless and empty with cold, dead eyes, a shell. 

Mr. Graves straightens and takes a few steps closer, those fathomless eyes fixating on Newt with a strangely familiar intensity. Newt has seen that expression once on a trip to Greece where he had stumbled into the lair of a vicious Chimaera about to devour its helpless prey. For a moment, Mr. Graves looks like he wants to strip the very flesh from his bones. Then, the mask-like face ripples and whatever serpentine being lurking within sinks beneath the surface. The queasy feeling Newt has felt ever since arriving becomes full-blown panic, but he forces himself to remain calm when the Head of Magical Law Enforcement brushes past them without a second glance.

There is a powerful Obscurial, killing Muggles in New York City, and he still needs to find his Niffler.

But something in Newt makes him run in the opposite direction in the underground subway tunnel.

 

* * *

 

Percival Graves was in a lot of pain.

The small cramped space Grindelwald has stashed him does not permit much movement. He suspects he’s somewhere underneath the city, probably in one of the empty subway tunnels, judging from the periodic vibrations jolting up his stiff spine.

It has been two weeks and his thin hope of rescue has gradually ebbed away to be replaced by rage. He’d been so stupid, underestimating his opponent and allowing Grindelwald to get the upper hand.

There is a restless itch crawling along his ribcage, becoming more and more insufferable over the past hour or so. His heart is pounding beneath the pattern of dappled feathers traced over his chest that is part of his ridiculous soul mark.

While others had small things like a sprig of flowers along their wrist, his mark was a hulking creature that was inlaid over the majority of Graves' upper body, its long wingspan enveloping his chest like a protective armor of knife-like feathers and ending in a lover's embrace over his shoulder blades. It was a Griffin with the powerful head of an eagle and the body of a majestic lion.

Graves still remembers the mind-numbing moment of horror he’d experience when he’d first been appointed the Head of Magical Law Enforcement by Seraphina a few years back. She’d been standing beneath the Eagle crest of MACUSA, and all the blood had drained from Graves’ face when he had walked in. It had taken him several blustering seconds to recall that his mark was a Griffin, not an eagle. The immense relief that had followed nearly sent him to his knees. If by some horrible twist of fate she had been his soulmate, he’d just feign ignorance until his death, or escape off to South America if she ever found out.

Graves is so wrapped up in his thoughts that he almost misses the sound of rapid footsteps crunching upon gravel. Two pounding heartbeats later, the bricks next to his temple explode in a shower of magic and he hears a man’s nervous babble.

Not Grindelwald.

The magically enforced ropes fall away just as Graves springs to his feet, using his bruised shoulder to pin the assailant to a nearby wall. He wrestles the wand from the man’s fingers and mutters an illumination spell.

“I knew it,” the stranger breathes. 

Graves knows how he must look, his cheeks unshaven and gaunt, two weeks worth of sour sweat and dried blood clinging to him like a thick impenetrable cloak, but he sees no fear in the man’s wide blue eyes. His curly-haired rescuer quickly averts his gaze, the tips of his ears flushing red. The walls shake around them. The tremors do not feel like they are from any No-Maj trains.

“What’s going on?” He demands, voice a dry rasp.

“It's an Obscurial," the man chokes out when Graves loosens his grip around his neck and turns just in time to see a massive gray entity explode from the brick ceiling. He pulls the man down with him as a hot spark of green light zips past, barely missing his ear.

Graves doesn’t know what prompts him to cast his Patronus at the figure emerging from the dust, but the giant feline explodes from the tip of the curly-haired stranger’s wand, and he hears a loud gasp in his ear as the silver Wampus charges down the dark tunnel.

“Stay down,” He growls at his shell-shocked rescuer and stands to face his fake double.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “A little over two weeks,” Graves replies grimly. “Percival Edward Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of MUCUSA’s Magical Law Enforcement Devision.” 
> 
> “Newt, magizoologist,” Newt returns distractedly. 
> 
> “Newt? What kind of parents name their kid after a type of salamander?” 
> 
> “Oh, it’s short for Newton, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” He explains hurriedly, avoiding the man’s intense gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graves." 
> 
> “The pleasure's all mine.” Graves doesn't sound very impressed. "I see why you prefer 'Newt.'"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this so fast I got whiplash.
> 
> Also, Graves did feel the connection, but he attributed it to adrenaline in the moment, so no, he still doesn't know.
> 
> Credence is about 16-years-old in this story.

Newt is not a particularly violent individual, nor is he prone to random bursts of violent action. He’s shy, modest and prefers the company of beasts rather than humans. His old Hogwarts friends, however few, used to compare his destructive capabilities to that of a particularly docile flubberworm.

But on this particular occasion, he launches himself at Percival Graves' winded imposter after the man aims yet another vicious curse at the real thing. His fist, which had never punched anyone in his life, meets the man's handsome jaw with a resounding crack. Pain shoots up his arm, and Graves’ wand clatters lose from the imposter's fingers. Newt and the imposter roll frantically around in the dirt, hands scrabbling for purchase.

" _Accio wand!_ ”

The wand flies to Graves and Newt catches a knee to the stomach in his distraction. Thick sturdy chains appear out of thin air, twisting around the imposter’s wrists and ankles. The panther Patronus hisses soundlessly, barring wickedly sharp fangs at the bound figure.

“Are you alright?” It takes Newt a few seconds to realize the hand extended to him belongs to the real Head of Magical Law Enforcement. He takes it hesitantly, biting back the gasp as hot relief spread like liquid elixir between their fingers, traveling down his right arm and lodging itself deep within his chest. Graves’ Patronus has wandered up to Newt, the waist-high silver animal regarding him with clear interest.

Graves keeps his wand trained steadily on the trussed-up man on the ground and uses his other hand to grab Newt’s chin, lifting his bleeding face into the light for a quick examination. Warm salty blood is pouring from his nose, but it doesn’t feel like it’s broken. Newt blinks blearily at the handsome face swimming in front of his face.

“New?” Graves asks, handing his wand back.

“Thank you. I’m sorry, w-what?” Newt blots at his bleeding nose and stammers.

“Are you the new junior auror in training?”

 _Ah_.

“No, I’m-” _your soulmate. I’ve been searching for you my_ _whole life._

“-just a civilian.” He manages to say finally, a bit disappointed when Graves dismisses his Patronus with a wave of his hand.

The man is cautiously approaching his imposter when he says, “Pity, the office could use someone like you."

Newt stares at his back in disbelief, warmth crawling up his neck at the casual compliment despite the sharp pain in his face. Graves turns back to him and jerks his chin down at the sprawled figure on the ground. “Care to do the honors?”

He nearly trips over his own feet in his haste to comply, and Graves’ lips flatten into a disapproving line at his clumsy footwork. Newt’s heart thunders in his chest as he whispers, “ _Revelio._ ”

He sucks in a sharp breath when familiar eyes blink up at him, lazy confidence swirling in their mismatched depth. He’d seen that cruel face on posters back in Britain so many times it’s become etched in the back of his eyelids.

_Gellert Grindelwald. Infamous Dark Wizard on the run._

“How long?” Newt asks into the silence.

“A little over two weeks,” Graves replies grimly. “Percival Edward Graves, Director of Magical Security and Head of MUCUSA’s Magical Law Enforcement Devision.”

“Newt, magizoologist,” Newt returns distractedly.

“Newt? What kind of parents name their kid after a type of salamander?”

“Oh, it’s short for Newton, Newton Artemis Fido Scamander,” He explains hurriedly, avoiding the man’s intense gaze. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Graves."

“The pleasure's all mine.” Graves doesn't sound very impressed. "I see why you prefer 'Newt.'"

“Isn’t he beautiful, gentlemen?” Grindelwald speaks for the first time, and an ugly shiver crawls down Newt’s spine at his cold velvety voice. The massive Obscurial that had once been Credence Barebone swirls restlessly above them.

"That creature is the physical manifestation of years of magic repression, there's nothing beautiful about it," Newt answers. Grindelwald pays him no mind, his dark gaze focused only upon Credence. There is something off about his easy surrender, but at the moment, all he feels is immense relief at the man's capture.

“Newt, where are you?” Tina’s worried voice echoes down the dark subway tunnel.

“Down here!” He calls back, his eyes flickering to Graves again, helplessly fascinated yet unable to bring himself to speak.

Tina appears with the Madame President in tow and a group of aurors who rush to Graves’ side. They push past Newt and surround the captured Grindelwald. Then, to his horror, half of the aurors turn as one and point their wands at the Obscurus.

“No!” He and Tina shout at the same time.

“He’s just a boy! Please, let us talk to him first, I beg of you," It takes all of Newt’s remaining courage to step forth and speak to the Madame President. He wraps his fingers over his right sleeve, silently drawing strength from the soul mark hidden beneath his clothes. Behind him, Graves slowly extinguishes the lit tip of his wand, his expression somewhat curious. Newt flashes him a brief grateful smile and turns to Tina as she starts speaking to the terrified boy within the monstrous mist.

“Credence, I know you can hear me. Do you remember who I am? It's me, Porpentina. You need to control it, please. Everything's going to be okay. We’ve caught the man who has been masquerading as Mr. Graves and using you for his evil agenda. The aurors will subdue him and you will be safe. MACUSA are going to provide a caring home for you.”

“ _Lies! You are all liars!_ ” A terrible voice screamed from within the dark mass.

“No, we guarantee you-” Newt catches movement in the corner of one eye and whirls around to find his Niffler sneaking discreetly atop the Madame President’s shoulder, tiny clawed hands reaching for a shiny diamond on her bejeweled head wrap. She flinches when he makes a sudden unexpected lunge at her. Newt closes his fingers around the chubby creature and shoots her his most benign smile as he beats a hurried retreat. He fusses over the Niffler for a second, tickling pieces of gold and silver out of its pouch.

They are all staring at Newt like he's gone mad, and when he chances a quick glance at his soulmate, the man’s dark expressive brows are making a bid for freedom and disappearing into his hairline. Face flaming with embarrassment and on the verge of panicking, Newt blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

“Credence, you can come with me! I am in dire need of an apprentice, and I can teach you anything you want to learn about, especially about magical creatures!” He holds up the Niffler like an offering to the gods and screws his eyes shut, hoping for the best. Newt’s heart is pounding so hard he almost misses Tina’s gasp of amazement.

He feels ice-cold fingers brush timidly against his own, the Niffler in his hands squirming to be let loose. Newt opens his eyes and finds Credence, once again in his human form and pale as death, standing in front of him.

“Promise?” The boy asks softly, huge eyes full of hurt but fingers so very gentle.

Newt nods dumbly and lets go of the Niffler.

 

* * *

 

The child succumbs to his exhaustion shortly after calming down and collapses into Newt’s startled arms. He wakes in a panic when magical medics attempt to separate him from Newt, so he ends up going to Saint Bartholomew's with the boy.

He and Tina are settling Credence into his hospital bed when Newt hears a cough from behind. Credence flinches back when he sees the actual Graves accompanied by the Madame President standing expectantly at the door. Tina makes to stand, but Graves stops her with a curt “not you, Goldstein. Him.” She sits back down with an air of dejection. Newt hurriedly follows them out and eases the door close behind him, leaving Tina to comfort the distressed boy.

“Mr. Scamander,” the Madame President draws herself up to her full impressive height and says solemnly. Newt hangs his head and his fingers instinctively seek the comfort of his wrist once more.

“Not fond of eye-contact are we, Mr. Scamander?” She asks, amused.

“Not particularly, no,” Newt mumbles into the collar of his thick blue coat. His ears are burning under her sharp scrutiny.

“Mr. Graves have just informed me of your heroic actions, and I hereby convey my gratitude on behalf of the Magical Congress of the United States of America, for your excellent service to wizard and witch-kind today.”

“Bravo, that was quite a mouthful.”

“What was that, Mr. Scamander?”

“Nothing, Madame President.” He replies innocently. A quick glance at Graves reveal that the Head of Magical Law Enforcement is smirking a little. Newt's cheeks flush warmly as his heart skips a beat.

She coughs before continuing importantly. "Under normal circumstances, the ceremony would be of greater grandeur, however, as we are in the middle of a crisis involving the recapture of Gellert Grindelwald, this will have to do. I am aware that you came to New York in search of a particular breeder of magical creatures.”

“Yes, Tina said he was evicted from the city.”

“Correct, and as a gesture of our welcome, MACUSA will allow you to take his place in the City of New York, as long as you obey certain legislations about the import of exotic beasts from abroad, and adhere strictly to the updated breeding rules.”

Newt’s mouth drops open. “I hadn’t made plans to stay for-”

“This would cater to your scholarly needs as well as the needs of several apothecaries within the city. You will, of course, be paid accordingly.”

“Are you offering me a job?” Newt asks breathlessly. Graves is frowning now.

“In short, yes.”

"What about Credence?" He asks, "I was not joking when I offered to take him as my apprentice."

"I cannot tell you, Mr. Scamander. That was a noble thing you did today, but the decision does not lie solely with me. The Magical Congress will have to decide with an open vote on how to deal with the Obscurus and the boy. And if need be, you will have to present your case before the House of Representatives. In the meantime, he will under the supervision of MACUSA and protected by a team of hand-picked aurors."

The Madame President must have spotted the dismay on Newt's face, for she waves a dismissive hand and says in a light voice, “Go on now, we will hash out the details at a later date. Get some rest, you've earned it. Right now, I need a strong drink and a long bath.” To Newt’s amazement, the Madame President turns her stern gaze to the man standing at her side. Graves pins her with an equally stern look. Newt fights down a sudden strong desire to laugh.

“You too, Percy. Report to a healer, tame that wild bush sprouting from your face before it swallows you whole, and for god sakes, take a long hot shower and get a good night's sleep. The Magical Law Enforcement Department can survive a day without your presence.”

“Do not ever call me Percy again, Seraphina,” He growls, expression thunderous. The Madame President merely yawns dismissively and waves a short goodbye to a dumbstruck Newt Scamander. Graves sets his intense gaze on Newt and for a wild moment, Newt thinks he’s about to say something, but then the Head of Magical Law Enforcement nods stiffly at him and turns to follow the Madame President. He stares after the man, feeling a bit lost and overwhelmed.

Then, to Newt’s horror, his Niffler jumps from Graves' coat pocket seconds before the man apparates away. The small creature waddles over cheerfully, rummages around in his pouch and withdraws a beautifully crafted silver pocket watch. The Niffler lays it at Newt’s feet and crawls back into the hospital room, wriggling under Credence’s covers and burrowing up into the boy’s arms.

Heart pounding with dread, Newt picks up the silver watch and turns it around to read the elegantly engraved letters on the back.

**_With love to Percival E. Graves._ **

Oh, bollocks.

 

Lovely conception sketch of the Niffler by emlawrence!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tina,” He stops her at the door. 
> 
> “Yes, Mr. Graves?” 
> 
> “For your first assignment back in the department, I want Mr. Scamander’s complete file on my desk by tomorrow morning.” 
> 
> There is no mistaking that look of hunger on his face now. 
> 
> Tina gulps before replying, “yes, sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graves has become suspicious. And no, I have not forgotten about the watch. But he is hardly going to mention that he's lost a valuable item to Tina. 
> 
> About two weeks have passed since the events in the second chapter.

The morning Percival Graves returns to work, there is a rather large party held in celebration in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement and Magical Security. Tina is standing next to Queenie and a couple of colleagues from the Wand Permit Office, sipping politely at their champagne glasses when Mr. Graves strides through the heavy metal doors. He’s dressed in a simple double-breasted overcoat, dark hair neatly slicked back from his forehead and a gray scarf lying loosely around his neck.

The soft chatter and laughter in the room seem to fade instantaneously in his presence, and all of a sudden, the only sound is the sharp click of Graves’ heels against the marble floor.

“What is this?” He doesn’t even need to raise his voice to sound intimidating, Tina thinks, gripping the stem of her champagne flute tighter.

“Welcome back, sir.” One of the braver aurors pipe up. There is a small spattering of nervous applause and a rather forlorn shower of confetti. The glittery paper vanishes before even landing on Graves’ shoulders. From Tina’s somewhat remote position, he doesn’t look very amused.

“He’s a horrible little man, isn’t he?” Queenie leans over and whispers in her ear.

“Don't say that! Mr. Graves is one of the most powerful wizards in the history of MACUSA,” Tina defends her former boss without even thinking.

“Well, he seems really rude, and I can’t read him at all.” She complains.

“Queenie, stop trying to use your Legilimency on Mr. Graves!” Tina hisses, shifting to aim a glare at her scowling sister. Queenie pokes her in retaliation and crosses her arms over her chest.

“Mr. Eisenhower, I assume this was your idea?” Graves asks flatly.

“Well sir, the whole department was involved,” A tall blond auror Tina recognizes as Graves' second-in-command quickly detaches himself from the crowd and answers.

“I would also assume that since you all had ample enough time to throw together this delightful gathering that the detailed report of last month’s Grindelwald debacle is currently sitting ready on my desk,” He continues in an irritated voice.

“We are still working on it, sir.” Eisenhower averts his eyes.

He lifts a dark brow and removes his dragon-hide gloves, voice practically dripping with sarcasm, “not finished, and yet you decided that it was a good idea to have a party?”

The crowd ripples with nervous tension.

“Thank you all for coming. I truly appreciate this pleasant little surprise-” Graves’ voice softens a bit when he turns to address the room at large.

“He sure doesn't sound very appreciative of-" 

_“Queenie!”_

“-however, as not even my closest colleagues were able to distinguish their real Head of Department from an imposter for over two weeks, it has led me to believe that we have had enough pleasantries within this department. My aurors have gone uselessly soft, and as of the moment, whipping them back into shape is of the upmost importance.”

A ringing silence follows.

Tina feels a drop of cold sweat slide slowly down her spine.

“If you will all excuse me for saying this, but it is time for us to get back to work,” Graves finishes coolly. “John, I expect the finished report on my desk by noon.”

"Yes, sir," Eisenhower replies quickly.

"Everyone, please go back to your various posts and duties. Thank you."

As one, the witches and wizards from the Wand Permit Office slowly make their way to the elevators. Tina turns to follow them, lifting her glass to drain the rest of her champagne. She’s really not looking forward to another grueling day of filing paperwork on different wand lengths.

“ _Porpentina Goldstein_.” Graves’ cold clear voice sounds like a clap of thunder over the heads of the shuffling crowd.

All the way across the room, Tina cringes so hard she inhales half of the champagne down her lungs.

“In my office. _Now_.”

 

* * *

 

When Tina steps tentatively into Graves’ office, he has already taken off his overcoat. Her former boss's broad shoulders are confined within a crisp white shirt, and a sharp black vest with a steel gray collar hugs his lean torso. He's impeccably dressed as usual, but she does notice the lack of a tie today.

Tina blushes scarlet when he rids her of her hacking cough with a casual flick of his wrist. Even after all these years, his ability to perform spells without his wand still manages to unsettle her at times. She hangs her head gloomily as he strides into his spacious office and tells her to take a seat in one of the chairs in front of the dark sleek monstrosity that is Mr. Graves’ desk.

For a few minutes, he ignores her entirely as he shuffles through the day's memos. She can’t help but fiddle restlessly with a loose thread on her sleeve, the tips of her ears still uncomfortably warm.

“Tina,” Graves exhales, breaking the unbearable silence and placing the memos back onto his desk where they organize themselves into departmental stacks, and his magic fountain pens zoom out of a left-hand drawer to begin rapidly inscribing replies. Graves leans his hip against the edge of the desk, and the gesture stretches the collar of his shirt a little, revealing a swirl of dark shadow at the base of his neck.

_Does he even have a soul mark?_

She knows from the few occasions he has left his forearms exposed that they're quite nice forearms but bare of any marks. A great majority of magical folk have their soul marks on their limbs or somewhere on their body that is often exposed. There is no doubt that this pattern of placement is an evolutionary adaptation to foster instant recognition without lowering physical attractiveness, but Tina also knows quite a few wizards and witches who do not have soul marks at all, including her own sister Queenie. She finds it rather odd to think that there is someone out there in the world who would be romantically compatible with Mr. Graves, as he just so happens to be the most intimidating and austere person she has ever had the fortune/misfortune to meet.

Tina tears her eyes away from his neck with some difficulty, “Yes, Mr. Graves, sir?”

“Frankly, I’m very disappointed in that lot out there,” He says, moving toward the glass cabinets behind his chair where he keeps all of the awards the department has ever received framed.

Tina chances another more thorough peek at him, and although his back is still ramrod straight, she sees signs of a person who has yet to sleep a wink in many nights. There are heavy smudges of purple beneath his eyes, and she’s suddenly reminded unpleasantly that under the tough exterior he’s only human.

“Sir, I’m really sorry that I too hadn’t noticed-”

“No one did, Tina,” He cuts across her babble with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Not even Picquery, and we went to school together."

“Newt did,” Tina blurts out before she can stop herself. “I was with him in the subway tunnels that night. He seemed to sense that something was off even before that.”

“Oh?” Graves’ gray eyes had narrowed with interest.

“I brought him to MACUSA because of his unregistered creatures,” She continues, thinking back to what Newt had told her, “and when he first saw your imposter, he said that there was 'a feeling of wrongness’ about him. He also looked really ill, but I think that was because he’d just gotten off a very crowded ship after a very long trip.”

“And? How did he know where I was hidden?” There’s definitely fascination in Graves’ voice now.

Tina fiddles with her sleeve again, “I don’t know, sir. Like I said, we chased the Obscurial down into the subway tunnels, and he just suddenly ran off in the opposite direction, and a few minutes later we arrived to find you-”

“Did he say anything before he departed?” Graves interrupts impatiently.

“I can't remember,” Tina mumbles, cringing away from the hot flash of irritation in Graves’ eyes. “But I think he said something about it feeling instinctively right…”

She trails off uncertainly, expecting to be reprimanded for her terrible memory, but Graves’ isn’t paying her any attention. He’s staring unseeingly into the leaping flames in the fireplace, one of his hands rubbing absentmindedly at the spot at the base of his neck where Tina could’ve swore she’d seen the edge of a pattern earlier.

When he turns back to face her, there's a glimmer of something strange in his dark gray eyes. “How would you like to get your previous job back, Tina?”

“S-sir, I w-would love to come back,” She stammers, completely blindsided by the unexpected turn of events.

“Very well, consider it a reward for your outstanding behavior during the Grindelwald recapture,” He waves a hand at his desk and one of the old typewriters clacks to life, quickly polishing off an official-looking sheet that Graves stamps with his signature and title. He hands it to her. "Bring that down to Human Resources, and you may report to your old post from now on. I will send a note to the Madame President. Also, you may have the rest of your morning off to say your goodbyes to your colleagues down in the Wand Permit Office and relocate your things.”

Tina thanks him profusely and stumbles out of Mr. Graves’ office in a daze of euphoria.

“Tina,” He stops her at the door.

“Yes, Mr. Graves?”

“As your first assignment back in the department, I want Mr. Scamander’s complete file on my desk by tomorrow morning.”

There is no mistaking that look of hunger on his face now.

Tina gulps before replying, “yes, sir.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He must have had his reasons for doing so. Mr. Graves can’t be that bad," Newt tries to reason with her, but Queenie shakes her head vehemently. 
> 
> “He can, and he is,” She insists, “His mind is always shielded and he has terribly cold eyes. He’s not a nice man, Mr. Scamander. I’m very good at reading people.” Horror suddenly flits across her beautiful face, “Oh dear, do you think he's Tinnie’s intended? She scolded me today when I said he was an awful person.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There has been a great increase in the number of soulmate fics for these two. I hope I'll be able to pull off this cliché trope and make it an interesting read.

**_With love to Percival E. Graves._ **

The words could come from anyone: a close friend, a sibling, a parent, or-

Newt doesn't want to think about it, but it could also come from a lover.

Two weeks have passed and he has yet to summon the courage to return Mr. Graves' stolen pocket watch. The rather unimpressed looks the troublesome little Niffler has been shooting him behind his back have not gone unnoticed by Newt, but the thought of Percival Graves glaring him down as he apologizes profusely for his mischievous pickpocket has a fresh layer of cold sweat breaking out over Newt’s skin. Equally frightening is the prospect of the Director of Magical Security tracing the stolen artifact back to him and taking him in for yet another interrogation on his 'suspicious activities.'

Could there be a more discreet method of delivering the watch to the man without drawing any attention to himself? Bribing the Niffler with a variety of jewelry to return the property it had stolen certain hadn’t worked at all.

_Perhaps a charm?_

Newt’s wracking his brain for one that could work when Queenie’s cheerful voice cuts through his contemplation.

“What are you frowning about, Mr. Scamander?”

“Ah, n-nothing,” He fumbles the silver pocket watch, almost dropping it into the bucket of flubberworms he’s feeding with fresh lettuce. Queenie skips gracefully down the steps leading from his suitcase and smiles secretively when he hurriedly yanks his sleeve back down over his wrist.

“Is that a soul mark I spy?” She wanders over, plucking the head of lettuce from him and peering down at the writhing worms with interest.

“You’re home early from work,” Newt murmurs, averting his gaze and concentrating on cloaking his thoughts.

Queenie feigns hurt and shoves the vegetable back into his arms. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“No, of course I am. Ecstatic even. I need help collecting pus from these flubberworms,” Newt puts on his most winning smile. Graves’ watch is a heavy distracting weight in his left breast pocket.

“Eww,” Predictably, she shies away. Newt fights back a laugh and squats down to snap on his thick protection gloves.

“I don’t have one, you know,” Queenie says after a moment of comfortable silence.

“One what?” Newt grunts, trying to wrap his fingers around a furiously writhing flubberworm. The slimy green-gray mucus flowing freely from both ends of the thick worm is not making the job any easier.

“A soul mark,” Queen’s voice is quiet when she next speaks. “They say it’s because my soulmate died before my time. It's not such a big deal here in America. I have lots of coworkers who are perfectly happy married to someone other than their soulmate, but it would’ve been nice to at least know that there’s someone out there who would love me entirely…”

“Tina loves you entirely,” He points out and avoids a stream of pus aimed at his face. It misses his left ear by millimeters.

“It’s not the same,” She sighs, "and besides, she’s got one. So if she finds him or her and decides to settle down, I'll be all alone...”

Newt pauses and looks over at Queenie. She’s sitting on the steps of a nearby hut, her fingers skimming sadly over the black fur of a Kneazle that had wandered over to her. He thinks about the fierce animal he bears upon his own wand arm and the dark fathomless eyes of the man it symbolizes.

Newt drops the angry worm back into the bucket with a loud squelch, yanks off the soiled gloves, and sits down cross-legged on the ground next to her feet. He blows a lock of brown hair out of his sweaty face and says thoughtfully, “You know, my grandmother used to say that wizards and witches without marks were meant to fall in love with Muggles.”

Queenie is silent for a minute. Then much to his surprise, she gives a great gasp of wonder and looks up excitedly, "If that were true…then that means...that mean...Jacob!”

“Mr. Kowalski?" Newt asks, taken aback, "What about him?”

“He's the one!” Queenie explains enthusiastically and jumps to her feet. “Oh, honey, you really do know how to say the sweetest things.”

She smiles dreamily at his somewhat horrified face. He hadn't intended his words to have this outcome. She continues thoughtfully, “It must be Jacob. I’ve never felt like that with anyone else in my entire life, and it's like he’s taken a piece of me with him when he left…”

Newt thinks he knows the feeling. It's not a pleasant one.

"Queenie, ah, when will your sister be back?” He coughs and asks in a desperate attempt to distract her from exploring the subject of Mr. Kowalski any further, as much as it pains him to see her sad and to lose Jacob as a friend.

“Hmm, I don’t know. She should have been back by now,” Queenie twirls a strand of strawberry blond hair thoughtfully in her forefinger before screwing her eyes shut in concentration and reaching for her sister’s consciousness. Then, she frowns, “Oh no! Tinnie got promoted back to her auror position this afternoon, and she's really really excited.”

“What?” Newt’s pulse picks up at the mention of Graves’ department.

Queenie huffs, “That horrible little man called her into his office today after he scolded everyone about the surprise welcome party his aurors threw for him.”

“He must have had his reasons for doing so. Mr. Graves can’t be that bad," Newt tries to reason with her, but Queenie shakes her head vehemently.

“He can, and he is,” She insists, “His mind is always shielded and he has terribly cold eyes. He’s not a nice man, Mr. Scamander. I’m very good at reading people.” Horror suddenly flits across her beautiful face, “Oh dear, do you think he's Tinnie’s intended? She scolded me today when I said he was an awful person.”

Newt smiles weakly, “Rest assured, Miss Goldstein. He’s not.”

“But how would you know?” She asks, still looking quite upset at the idea. “I suppose he wouldn’t really fit in with the image of the pretty feathery bird she has on her ankle. His mark would probably be a scorpion or something. What do you think, Mr. Scamander?”

 _It’s actually a feline, a quite regal one at that, and it’s etched into the skin of my right arm,_ he wants to say. Instead, Newt clears his throat and abruptly changes the subject, “You know, I still need to find a place to set up shop. Any ideas, Miss Goldstein? As much as I enjoy your company, that fierce landlady of yours will surely find out about me one of these days.”

To his great surprise, she lights up at his question. “Oh, I was hoping you’d ask, Mr. Scamander! I know the perfect place!”

Five minutes later, the two of them are standing outside of Jacob Kowalski’s cozy little bakery, having apparated safely into a nearby alleyway. There is a creaky “FOR RENT” sign hanging from the third floor.

"So, what do you think?" Queenie asks.

Newt shoots her a suspicious look, “Have you been stalking him? You know that the Madame President has forbidden us to reveal ourselves to Mr. Kowalski after the Obliviation Charm, right?”

“Yes, but she didn’t say we couldn’t interact with him without revealing ourselves,” She points out desperately, “You could rent the floors above his bakery and cast a No-Maj repelling charm to prevent discovery. Everyone would be none the wiser, Mr. Scamander. And I-"

“Miss Goldstein…”

She deflates under his sympathetic gaze, her eyes filling with unshed tears, “I only want to see how he’s doing…I don't need much, just a glimpse from afar would do…”

Newt knows she wants a reason to come here, needs some form of excuse for her resolve not to crumble under the pressure of MACUSA’s Anti No-Maj regulations. He can be her excuse, but more importantly, he can be her shield. Queenie's expression is so painfully earnest and hopeful that Newt doesn’t have the heart to say no.

_How could he when they were clearly meant to be?_

“Alright,” Newt finally relents, unable to hide his sad smile when Queenie throws her arms around him and stifles her relieved sob into his shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist polishing off this half-finished chapter 4 after one of my profs extended our paper due date! Hope you guys enjoy and please do leave me a comment! I haven't been able to reply to many because of my busy schedule, but I love all of them! 
> 
> If everything goes according to plan, Newt and Graves will meet in the next chapter. The next update should be sometime this weekend.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "We try to be as discreet as possible, and pigeons go about their business in the city unnoticed. Larger items are shipped via an express system underground," Graves says, "I suspect you use a different method back home?" 
> 
> "Owls," Scamander tells him with a shy smile that makes him feel strangely hot around the collar. He doesn't realize he’s still staring at the man until Tina gives him a slightly concerned look. Graves covers for his brief loss of sanity by clearing his throat.
> 
> “Wonderful,” He manages to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is in Graves' POV.

He is late to work on Friday.

Graves arrives around 10 o'clock to find Tina standing anxiously outside his office, a thick case file clutched to her chest. To his surprise, there is a familiar mop of fluffy brown hair half visible behind her left shoulder. Something clenches inside his chest at the sight of the man.

Graves had gone over Scamander's files over the last few days and had his suspicions debunked because Mr. Scamander was truly mundane, if not downright boring. Born to a witch mother who bred prize Hippogriffs ( _what even were Hippogriffs?_ ), which was no doubt where Scamander’s fascination for animals came from; and a No-Maj father ( _he shuddered to even think_ ) who was the owner of an antique bookstore. Attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, failed to graduate. Was even sorted into the least renowned House of Hufflepuff ( _a badger, really?_ ). He had a famous older brother, the internationally celebrated war hero, but the gene for greatness seemed to have skipped a child in the Scamander family. Needless to say, coming from a long line of powerful Aurors and Wampus alumni, Graves had been severely disappointed in his prospective intended's "resume." But how could he even be sure? There had been nothing substantial in the files tying Newt to the Griffin on his chest, despite the odd impulses he had been feeling ever since setting eyes on the diminutive man in that underground subway tunnel. In fact, the likelihood that the noble creature stood for the older of the Scamander brothers seemed greater, not that he was looking forward to that possibility. But as much as he hated to admit, his instincts had never been wrong before, and his instincts, however illogical and infuriating, pointed to, well, Mr. Scamander.

Tina waves enthusiastically when she spots him and calls out, “Mr. Graves, sir!”

"Good morning to you too, Miss Goldstein," Graves replies irritably when she interrupts his train of thought. He had barely gotten two hours of sleep last night, Grindelwald’s mocking face and Mr. Scamander's demure smile haunting his dreams interchangeably every time he closed his eyes. His quality of sleep has not improved with time like the healers at Saint Bart's had promised.

“Mr. Scamander,” He greets the man trying to hide behind Tina with a polite nod and gestures for Tina to follow him into his office.

“Is Mr. Scamander in trouble?” Graves asks when Tina grabs the startled man by the elbow and drags him inside with her. Scamander’s ears redden instantly at his words, but he keeps his eyes stubbornly glued to the carpet.

“Oh no, sir,” Tina explains quickly, “we just got back from a visit to Saint Bart’s.”

“The Obscurial boy?” Graves hangs his coat and makes his way over to his desk.

“His name is Credence,” Scamander surprises him by saying. He bites his lip when Graves turns to face him but does not break eye contact this time. His eyes are a particularly stunning shade of blue.

“Credence,” Graves corrects, motioning for the two of them to sit, “my apologies, Mr. Scamander.”

Scamander’s cheeks flush. It is a rather fetching look on him.

“Tea or coffee, Tina?” Graves asks, "I presume you prefer tea, Mr. Scamander?”

“Coffee, sir,” Tina says, looking a bit nervous as she sets her finished report upon his desk. Scamander murmurs a word of thanks when Graves offers him the hot drink, long tapered fingers curling carefully around the handle of the mug.

"I did not _poison_ them," Graves says after a pause, watching the duo squirm uncomfortably in their seats without lifting the cups to their lips, "While I applaud you for keeping your guard up, Miss Goldstein, I would suggest a better control of your facial expressions in the future. Your face instantly gives all your thoughts away."

Predictably, Tina burns her tongue in her haste to take a sip and turns as red as Mr. Scamander. Graves fights the strong urge to sigh.

“How are we on the illegal drug case?” He prompts when she manages to swallow the mouthful of hot liquid with a straight face.

“Good,” Tina croaks. He raises his eyebrow. She coughs, “I mean, we tracked the suspect back to his hideout last night and confiscated all of his stock. Lee has him in Interrogations right now.”

“Excellent.” She beams at his compliment. "And the boy? How is his recovery going?"

"Faster than we expected," Tina replies, "The Head Healer reckons he can be discharged within the next week, sir, which is why I brought Newt with me to register his new address and file the correct paperwork to start the process of putting Credence under his care."

Graves pauses in his writing and glances up at them, "you've found a place in New York then, Mr. Scamander?"

"Yes," Scamander answers quickly. Their eyes meet fleetingly, then the magizoologist glances back down at the hands folded in his lap.

"How have you found the city to be?" He asks absently and mutters a silent spell under his breath. The interdepartmental memos Graves had been working on quickly fold themselves into tiny mice that scuttle down the distribution chute and out of sight. Scamander watches them go with a faint smile on his face.

"It's more fascinating than I had previously expected, Mr. Graves," he answers in a soft voice, the tense lines of his shoulders a little more relaxed. "I had not expected the letters here to be by pigeon post, although the merits are quite obvious now that I've taken a walk in Central Park in daylight."

"We try to be as discreet as possible, and pigeons go about their business in the city unnoticed. Larger items are shipped via an express system underground," Graves clarifies, "I suspect you use a different method back home?"

"Owls," Scamander tells him with a shy smile that makes him feel strangely hot around the collar. He doesn't realize he’s still staring at the man until Tina gives him a slightly concerned look. Graves covers for his brief loss of sanity by clearing his throat.

“Wonderful,” He manages to say. There is a moment’s pause. Then, a faint knock sounds at his door. Graves adjusts his tie and takes a quick breath to ground himself. “Come in.”

He doesn’t expect Seraphina to stride into his office, her long platinum blonde hair braided into an intricate knot at the base of her neck and decked out in a form-fitting black dress with a golden collar.

Apparently, neither does Tina. She promptly knocks her cup of coffee over in her haste to stand and greet the Madame President. Graves can no longer fight the crippling urge to sigh when Seraphina raises her eyebrow at him over Tina's frantic apologies. She doesn’t think much of the girl, not that he blames her, what with Tina’s knack for tripping over her own feet and taking someone down with her in the process. But she’s got heart and determination, with is something Graves values greatly in his line of work, and Magical Law Enforcement needs someone like Tina Goldstein despite the incident with the Second Salemers a few months ago.

“I didn’t know you had visitors. Mr. Scamander,” Seraphina inclines her head at the magizoologist after getting rid of the puddle of spilled coffee with a wave of her hand. “Miss Goldstein, I see that you are back with your favorite departmental head.”

Tina blushes scarlet and sits back down gingerly. Seraphina turns back to Graves, “Nice tie. Wampus House colors?”

“I was feeling a bit nostalgic of the old school days,” He replies with a shrug. He had picked a tie that had matched the Wampus House colors of black and maroon this morning.

“Well, we all know that the Horned Serpent House is the best out of the four,” There’s a familiar condescending smirk on Seraphina’s face now. Although he is dead tired from the lack of sleep and quite irritated about his grandfather's missing pocket watch, Graves snorts at her obvious attempt to incite yet another useless argument over the age-old question of ‘which house is more superior.’

“More than a few of those brown-nosing, know-it-all old fools in the House of Representatives are from your house, are they not? I suppose you are getting along nicely now, despite half of them threatening to resign in protest when you were first inaugurated.” He notices in the corner of his eye that Scamander is watching their familiar exchange with a curious smile on his face.

“Better than the gung-ho ideals they teach you in Wampus,” She retorts with a smirk, taking a seat on the edge of his desk, “What was it again? Stab it with a wand first and ask questions later? Savage Neanderthals.”

They turn to Tina, who’s in the middle of attempting to shimmy herself underneath Graves’ desk.

“Well?” Both demand.

She swallows thickly before replying in a tiny miserable voice, “With all due respect, ma’am, sir...I’m actually a Thunderbird.”

Silence.

Mr. Scamander ducks his head to hide his quiet amusement. Seraphina waves a dismissive hand, “Anyway, I sent you a memo three hours ago.”

“Did you?” He looks down at his clean desk. “I’ve already answered all the interdepartmental memos I received, in case you cannot tell.”

“Next time, I'll send a more obvious message, then. Perhaps in the form of an explosive firework in the face, Director Graves.”

“That will not be necessary, President Picquery,” He replies drily. “What is so important that you felt the need to inform me in person?”

“I can’t go with you to visit Helena today,” She says with a grimace. “The Italian Magical Prime Minister arrived unexpectedly this morning with news of the latest activities of Grindelwald’s fanatics in Rome.”

His eyes widen with alarm, “You tell me this _now?_ Don’t you need me there for the meeting?”

Graves is aware that his other two guests are listening in on the conversation, but he is beyond caring at the moment.

“Oh, no, Eisenhower can attend in your place. You know how our dear girl always looks forward to these lunches with her most favorite person in the world.” There is definitely a glimmer of pure evil in her eyes. Mr. Scamander’s smile had disappeared. To Graves’ confusion, he seems somewhat disheartened at her words.

“But I believe things have worked in all of our favors, Mr. Graves,” Seraphina continues thoughtfully.

“Pray tell, Madam President,” He grits out between clenched teeth.

“You can introduce her to Mr. Scamander and Miss Goldstein. They will make sure you come back in one piece, won’t they? As a matter of fact, I do believe Mr. Scamander would make excellent company due to his special expertise.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but what exactly is Helena?” Tina asks before Graves’ brain can process her words. Curiosity flits over Scamander’s face, and there’s a familiar determination on Tina's, the kind of fiery devotion she usually reserves for cracking down illegal activity and processing mountains of overdue paperwork. Graves is pretty sure she has mistaken Helena for some dangerous magical creature, which is a rather accurate description, in his honest opinion.

“I’m glad you asked, Miss Goldstein,” A slow smile spreads on Seraphina's face. “She’s Mr. Graves’ grandmother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to add a bit of fluff in the form of Mr. Graves' grandmother. He is deathly afraid of her. 
> 
> He has read Newt's files, but has not made any connections to his own soul mark. Nor has he seen Newt's. He might realize in the next chapter, though. He's trying to fight the bond, which makes the pull stronger.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rubbing his thumb gently over the warm curve of the man’s palm, Newt smiles softly at Mr. Graves, “See? All better.” 
> 
> A shadow of something passes in his gray eyes, gone before Newt can properly comprehend. His strangely hot gaze drops to Newt’s mouth, and for a second, Mr. Graves looks like he wants to devour him whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The word count is getting a bit out of hand. I have this annoying habit of doing too much world-building. I need the gift of being able to write a oneshot. Goddamn. 
> 
> I really don't want to rush the relationship and there's so much planned out for the plot, but I tend to write too much. Ugh. I really, really want to keep this under 40k.

“Lunch with Mr. Graves’ gran, huh?” A slow smirk spreads over the tall blond Auror’s face after Tina finishes recounting her story.

Her departmental head had dismissed them from his office for a private conversation with the Madame President before they headed out for lunch together, and Tina had dragged Newt straight over to the desk of a man she had introduced as Mr. Graves’ second-in-command, one Mr. John S. Eisenhower, Senior Auror with a specialization in Curse Breaking, as the sign on his desk suggested. Newt thinks he has a faint recollection of seeing the man briefly during the capture of Gillert Grindelwald.

“I met her once,” Eisenhower rubs at his chiseled chin with a faraway look on his face. “Mr. Graves had to take her in for questioning about a case of physical assault on a Mo-Maj.”

“Mr. Graves arrested _his own grandmother?_ ” Tina asks, looking more impressed than horrified. As Queenie had insisted at dinner three nights ago, her blind hero-worship of him was getting a bit of out-of-hand.

“Well, technically no, she hadn’t assaulted the No-Maj, but from the snippets of conversation I overheard, she has some pretty feral garden gnomes she refused to get rid of,” The blond man chuckles at the memory, “I think Mr. Graves had to confiscate her wand and relocate her to a nursing home, because that hadn’t been the first time it's happened. The gnomes almost dragged the traumatized No-Maj under the house before his screaming attracted a nearby MACUSA patrol officer.”

“Oh my,” Tina says, stunned. Newt thinks he finally understands why President Picquery had said in Graves’ office that his special expertise would probably come in handy.

“Poor guy nearly lost a buttock, and Mr. Graves had to do a ton of paperwork, what with the breach of magical secrecy and endangerment of a No-Maj,” Eisenhower looks contemplative for a moment before grinning and leaning forward to speak in a low secretive whisper. “You know, back when I was still working in the Magical Artifacts Department, Mr. Graves once helped us get rid of a Boggart that had escaped from old Bernie's desk, and guess what Bernie said it had turned into at the sight of him?"

"What?” Tina asks breathlessly, her eyes wide as dinner plates. Newt can’t help the amused smile that spreads on his face.

“He swore on his life the Boggart turned into a bunch of garden gnomes, but old Bern's blind as a bat, so nobody believed him. Guess it's going into the unsolved case stack,” Mr. Eisenhower says with a cheerful shrug. Tina gives an undignified snort of laughter.

“ _John_.”

The cold voice of the Director of Magical Security has the three of them jumping apart so fast Newt bangs his hip against Mr. Eisenhower’s desk and sends his desk block tumbling to the floor. The blond man catches Tina by the elbow when she trips over a fallen ledger in her panic and overbalances.

“Sir, Madame President,” Eisenhower coughs, rapidly schooling his face into a somewhat serious expression. He lets go of Tina’s arm, and they both adopt the standard stance for Aurors, feet a few inches apart and backs ramrod straight. Newt discreetly slips the block of metal and wood back onto Eisenhower's desk, his face flaming hot as he desperately tries to suppress the bubble of laughter lodged in his throat at the sight of Mr. Graves’ stern face.

“Have you finished your Goblin Rebellion report?” Graves barks.

“Yes, sir. It’s right here,” He twists around to search his messy desk before turning to shoot Tina an apologetic smile, “sorry, darling girl, you’re standing on it.”

Under Mr. Graves’ hawk-like gaze, Mr. Eisenhower hurriedly dusts off the MACUSA ledger with his shirt sleeve and presents it to his boss. Graves looks like he’s suppressing the strong urge to beat the blond man over the head with it when he snatches the ledger from Eisenhower’s fingers.

“President Picquery needs a few words with you about the meeting this afternoon, John,” Graves snaps, and the Senior Auror quickly walks over to the Madame President, looking rather relieved to have escaped the encounter unharmed. Then Mr. Graves turns to the two of them and motions with an impatient wave of his gloved hand, “Well, what are you still standing around for? Let’s get this over with.”

They make their way out of the MACUSA headquarters on foot and Mr. Graves purchases a bouquet of Muggle flowers from a street stand before the three of them discreetly apparates to the edge of New York City where the magical nursing home is located.

He leads them into the lobby, past the witches and wizard staff, and down a long narrow corridor filled with brown doors and name-tags. They stop at a door somewhere in the middle and Graves unlocks it with a flick of his wand. He pushes it open to reveal a lush green meadow with a small cozy cottage at the end of a well-trodden path. Tina muffles her gasp behind a hand and Newt stares in amazement.

“After you, Tina, Mr. Scamander,” Graves says with a resigned expression on his face.

 

* * *

 

Helena Elizabeth Bonham is a tiny thing, barely reaching Newt’s chest, with huge brown eyes magnified behind round spectacles and wispy silver hair pulled into a bun atop her head. She squeals in delight at the flowers her grandson stiffly presents to her and pulls Mr. Graves into a tight hug.

“Come in, come in,” She happily beckons them inside after Graves introduces them, “I always enjoy meeting Percy’s friends.” She kisses them both on the cheeks, and with a flick of her wand conjures two more chairs for the table in the kitchen. Then, quite spry for her age, Helena shuffles off to find a pretty vase for the flowers. Mr. Graves narrows his eyes at his retreating grandmother.

“Helena, where did you get that wand?” He asks in a level voice.

“Oh, I won it from Mildred in a game of poker,” She chirps, levitating a giant pink teapot and several lilac-colored teacups over to the doilies on the table. “She’s the one who lives two doors down from me with the malfunctioning ear-trumpet. I also won Poe’s prosthetic leg. He swore it could spit out Dragonfire. That has yet to be proven, but no fear, I am working on dismantling it.”

Mr. Graves pinches the bridge of his nose and quickly follows her into the foyer, “you can’t just take a wand from another witch a-and someone's leg!” It’s the first time Newt has heard the man stumble over his words.

“Well, you took mine, so I had no choice, did I?” Helena gestures for Newt and Tina to sit.

“I confiscated it as a punishment after what had happened.” He bites out, scowling.

“Be a darling boy and remind me what, Percy. I'm afraid my memory is failing with old-”

"Oh, don't pretend, your memory is fine," Mr. Graves unbuttons his suit jacket and sits down irritatedly, “No less than sixteen reports of magical creature assault, five of which were upon No-Maj civilians, Grandmother. You broke MACUSA law, not only on Magical Secrecy, but also the possession of hostile magical creatures. And apparently, continue to break them as we speak. Do you not remember that I am the Head of Magical Law Enforcement?”

It’s a speech Newt is very familiar with, having heard it numerous times from Tina and the Graves imposter alike.

“Of course I remember,” Helena says amicably. She pulls out a tin from somewhere and offers it to Tina and Newt, “Have a sugar cookie, darlings. We can chat a bit before we make lunch.”

“ _Grandmother._ ”

“Are you going to try and take it from me, Percy dear?” Her voice is still airy, but Newt sees Mr. Graves swallow uneasily in the corner of his eye. “I’m no trained Auror, but even your grandfather could not best me in a duel.” She sighs sadly, “You Graves men, with your wands shoved so far up your arses you can’t even bend in the slightest. Your father and grandfather were the same, but I expected better from my favorite grandson.” Then, ignoring Mr. Graves’ affronted sputter, Helena turns to Newt and Tina, “How do you darlings know Percy?”

Tina hurriedly swallows her cookie and says, “Mr. Graves is my boss, ma’am.”

She tuts, “None of that ma’am thing in my house, dear. Call me Helen or Helena, and how unfortunate, you poor girl.”

Tina smiles nervously. Graves' scowl has reached alarming proportions. He seems to be having difficulty reigning in his temper.

“And you, love?” She asks Newt kindly.

"I’m a magizoologist actually.” He answers in a quiet voice. Newt omits his relationship with Graves, but Helena’s expression lights up at his accent.

“Percy mentioned a young British wizard had saved him in the Grindelwald attack a few weeks ago,” She takes a sip from her cup, a twinkle in her brown eyes. “Did you, by any chance, attend Hogwarts?”

He blinks, stunned, “Yes, yes I did. How-”

“So did I!” Helena laughs, delighted, "My parents were Irish, but I grew up in London. I was a Ravenclaw, mind you.”

“Hufflepuff,” Newt returns with a helpless smile. He feels a sudden rush of fondness for her, the emotion not unlike coming unexpectedly across a dear old friend while traveling in some obscure part of the world.

“Have we met before?” Newt can’t help but ask.

She smiles secretively, “You may have seen a portrait of me at Saint Bart’s. I was one of the three founding healers.”

Something clicks in Newt’s head and his eyes widen, “There was also one of you in Saint Mungo’s in London. You used to smile at me when I had to go with my parents."

“Yes, Mungo Bonham was my great-grandfather. He revolutionized the healing arts, as they like to say in the History of Magic textbooks," Helena explains with a careless wave of her hand, "but enough about this boring old bat, I want to hear about you two.”

 

* * *

 

They end up making lunch in the Muggle way, washing vegetables and heating water slowly in preparation for soup, the soft croon of an antique record singing in the background. He suspects Helena chose this cooking method for the sole purpose of spending more time with them, not that he really minds.

Newt keeps his sleeves pulled low over his wrists, but Mr. Graves had rolled his cuffs neatly up to the base of his elbows, long elegant fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of a sharp kitchen knife as he diced the carrots on the cutting board. The sight of his bare skin makes uncertainty surface in Newt’s chest.

Did the man not bear a reciprocal mark to the one on his arm? Was he actually not Newt’s intended? He was pretty certain that there had been no mistaking the rush of warmth when Mr. Graves had first touched him, but over the last few weeks, the man had shown no signs of acknowledging the bond, not that Newt was hoping for the Director of Magical Security to suddenly serenade him in the moonlight or something. American wizards and witches did have a rather liberal opinion of soulmates and marks in general. Perhaps Mr. Graves was already romantically involved with someone. Was he, Newt Scamander, doomed to long after someone he could never have? Or worse, fall for someone who was not his intended?

Newt is so distracted by his internal thoughts that he misses Helena’s next question. Tina’s elbow digging painfully into his ribs pulls him back to the kitchen to find the three of them staring expectantly at him.

“She asked about your parents,” Tina hisses out of the side of her mouth.

“Oh, umm, my father’s Muggle-born, he collects old books,” he blurts out, wincing when a frown crosses over Mr. Graves’ face and the man turns to resume his chopping. “My mum breeds Hippogriffs. I also have an elder brother,” He adds in a much quieter voice and lowers his gaze to the potatoes in his hands.

“Lovely,” Helena smiles encouragingly from where she’s stirring the pot with Mildred's wand, “And what are Hippogriffs, if I may ask?”

Newt wracks his brain for a clear way of explaining the magnificent creatures, “Well, they are extraordinary animals with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a stallion. My mother discovered them when she accidentally crossbred some of her Griffins.”

“How so?”

“Hippogriffs are actually all sterile males, so they can’t produce any viable offsprings of their own,” Newt explains, depositing his peeled potatoes by Mr. Graves’ side. The man had stopped chopping, his knife hovering unmovingly over the half-cut carrots. Newt crosses back over to the sink, “They are born when a certain subspecies of Griffins is bred with another. It took years for my mother to figure it out scientifically,” He smiles fondly, “Griffins are truly magnificent creatures, perhaps my favorite of all that I have come across in my travels. Growing up, my brother Theseus and I used play with them in the backyard. Our parents left them to babysit us while they were out for the day. They are fiercely protective of those they call family.”

The knife clatters loudly to the ground and Mr. Graves hisses in pain, a few splashes of red dripping onto the cutting board. Newt quickly crosses over to him.

“Let me see the wound, Mr. Graves,” he urges, pulling out a small jar of healing ointment from his pocket.

“I’m fine,” Graves grits out, his face ash-white. He avoids Newt’s eyes when he pries the man's fingers open to reveal the long bleeding cut.

“You’re okay. It’s not serious. We’ll just apply a bit of unicorn essence and you will be right as rain,” Newt doesn’t realize he’s crooning gently at the Director of Magical Security like one of his injured creatures when he applies the paste gently to the cut and they both watch the wound rapidly knit itself back together, leaving only a faint pink line in its wake. Rubbing his thumb gently over the warm curve of the man’s palm, Newt smiles softly at Mr. Graves, “See? All better.”

A shadow of something passes in his gray eyes, gone before Newt can properly comprehend. His strangely hot gaze drops to Newt’s mouth, and for a second, Mr. Graves looks like he wants to devour him whole. Heat flares in his cheeks. The Director of Magical Security quickly snatches his hands away.

“Thank you, Mr. Scamander,” he says in rough voice, turning his back to Newt. Tina and Graves’ grandmother are both watching them with curious expressions on their faces. Newt clears his throat.

“You are very welcome, Mr. Graves.” He replies in an even voice and goes back to washing his vegetables.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eisenhower was very fun to write. I may add other Aurors in the office in the future.
> 
> Mr. Graves got mauled constantly by his grandmother's garden gnomes when he was a child, thus, he has developed a healthy fear of the creatures and his eccentric gran.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “He is your mate, this Graves,” Bastet seems to be extra persistent tonight. 
> 
> Newt’s fingers fly to his wrist instinctively. “No, Bastet, stop it.” 
> 
> “You want him to be. For the first time ever, I can smell desire on you,” She licks one of her massive paws, beautiful almond eyes full of curious amusement, “The children talk amongst themselves. Mommy is in love, they say. Will we soon be expecting more young ones?” 
> 
> His face is bright red now. “W-what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Hope ya'll enjoy!
> 
> A/N: I may have Theseus appear in the story later. 
> 
> 1\. The Greek Sphinx is often female and the Egyptian version is male, but I decided to make the Sphinx in this story a female. Bastet's name comes from the Eygptian goddess Bast, who was the goddess of warfare. She's decribed as a lioness warrior deity, which I found appropriate for Newt's Sphinx. (Habibi is a term of endearment in Arabic)
> 
> 2\. The Manticores in Harry Potter were described as having humaoid faces and no wings, but I decided to keep the original Greek version with the lion's head, wings, and scorpion tail. Ares' name comes from the Greek god of War. Ares was one of the Twelve Olympians, and the son of Zeus and Hera.

Tina is ridiculously happy that night, humming cheerfully under her breath while she bustles about in the cramped kitchen with her sister. Newt overhears her telling Queenie about their conversation with Mr. Eisenhower, and the girls' bell-like laughter brings a smile to his face as he sets the table in the adjacent room. Naturally, he is hesitant to spoil her mood, which means Queenie immediately picks up on it when their eyes meet over the dining table. She clears her throat and sets her knife and fork down. He shakes his head at her, but Queenie ignores him.

“Tinnie,” She says sweetly, “Newt and I have something to tell you.”

Face slightly flushed from the wine, Tina blinks at her sister. “Yes?”

 _Ah, this was why Queenie took out a bottle of the good stuff tonight,_ Newt realizes, very impressed with her ingenious plotting.

“Mr. Scamander’s new abode is actually above dear Jacob’s bakery,” She cuts straight to the chase. Newt crams a bite of food into his nervous mouth and waits for Tina’s outburst.

She belches loudly instead, her gaze a bit unfocused when she asks, “Who?”

“Mr. Kowalski, Tinnie, the No-Maj we befriended a month ago,” Queenie says patiently.

When the name finally registers, Tina’s eyes widen in alarm, her wine glass slipping from her fingers in horror. “No, no, no, when we were filing the paperwork today, you said-” she points an unsteady finger at Newt, “-you said it was on whatsit street, you didn’t mention Mr. Kowalski's bakery.”

“Tina, I am so so sorry for withholding that information from you, I really am,” Newt apologizes, wincing when Tina shakes her head violently, hands going to fist her hair in distress.

“Ooooh, he’s going to kill me, Mr. Graves is. I just got my job back,” She groans, “Garcia said he’s been in a terrible mood recently because he’s been having trouble sleeping. He’s going to send me back to the Wand Permit Office, I just know it.”

To Newt’s alarm, she begins to slip off her chair and under the table. Queenie heaves a put-upon sigh, dabs daintily at her lips, and wrestles her sister back into her seat.

“Tinnie's had a habit of diving for cover under tables since we were little,” She explains, not a single blonde curl out of place, “we all had coping mechanisms growing up in the orphanage.”

Tina moans in the background. Newt smiles at Queenie weakly.

“Tinnie, we need to talk about Mr. Kowalski,” She turns back to her slumped sister. “in private, please.”

 

* * *

 

Newt paces restlessly in his guest bedroom, keeping an ear out for anything. The girls’ loud argument had quieted into a low murmuring backdrop over the last ten minutes. He jumps when a soft tap sounds upon the window glass. Something large is silhouetted against the dark night. Newt approaches with caution, pointing his wand at the window and unlatching it with a flick of his wrist. A massive brown and gold-specked eagle owl swoops inside, landing gracefully atop Newt’s bedpost.

“Atlas!”

He recognizes the creature as his brother Theseus’ most trusted messenger owl, and Newt quickly crosses over to the bird when it sticks out its left leg regally.

“Hello, old friend,” He takes the letter and rewards Atlas with a gentle petting. “You must be exhausted. Did my cruel monster of a brother force you to fly over the Atlantic in this cold weather?”

The owl preens under his fussy attention, hopping closer and nuzzling into the palm of Newt’s hand. He laughs quietly and summons his leather arm guard so Atlas’ claws don’t cut into his skin when the owl decides to perch on him. Newt is lacing up the side when he sees a much smaller thing squeeze through the crack in the window and flop legs up onto his bed.

It’s a half-frozen pigeon.

There’s a small scroll tied to one lightly twitching claw. The owl chuffs dismissively at the sight of the other bird and shakes the remnants of moisture from his feathers.

“Did you sit on the poor thing, Atlas?” Newt laughs and scoops up the petrified pigeon, warming it against his chest after gently untying the scroll from its leg. The owl makes a low screeching noise and nudges his own message forward. Newt rolls his eyes and sits down, “Alright, you grump. I’ll read yours first.”

He breaks the Ministry of Magic seal at the back of the letter and unfolds the parchment from within. Newt's older brother’s messy scrawl flies over the page in a wild tangle of blue ink. People who read Theseus’ writing for the first time often marveled at how secretive the man was, always writing in coded script. In truth, Theseus just had atrocious handwriting.

Newt spots a few words he recognizes here and there.

_Congratulate. New job. MACUSA. Ministry of Magic. British Ambassador. Foster relations. Sent letter to Graves. He is aware. Good luck. Family misses you. Love from you big brother._

Did the Ministry of Magic really want him to be the British Ambassador to MACUSA, or was this another one of Theseus' "genius" plans for international magical cooperation?

Newt quickly unrolls the miniature scroll he’d gotten off of the pigeon. It expands into a full-sized piece of paper in his hands. Mr. Graves’ handwriting is as immaculate as the man himself, long graceful cursive letters in black ink. Newt traces a finger lightly over his own name.

_Dear Mr. Scamander._

He reads it over quickly. Mr. Graves congratulates him in the official words of MACUSA, three whole paragraphs of meaningless jargon about building alliances during times of conflict that fly completely over Newt’s head, a formal request for him to appear before the Magical Congress and House Reps. next Tuesday to discuss his new position as ambassador and Credence’s progress, and at the very end-

One brief sentence thanking him for his company today.

Newt can’t help the small fond smile that appears on his face at the words. He's still clutching the letter when Queenie suddenly bursts into his room and throws herself at him, shrieking, “Tinnie said yes! She said I could see Jacob, Newt!”

Atlas squawks in annoyance, his feathers fluffing threateningly. The pigeon makes a valiant effort to right itself on the bed and fails miserably.

“It’s going to be alright, love. Everything will be okay,” He rubs comforting hands over her back when her relieved laughter turns into heaving wet sobs. Over Queenie’s golden head, Newt catches Tina’s red-rimmed eyes. She leans her weight against his doorframe and gives Newt a watery smile.

“Thank you,” He mouths silently at her and tightens his arms around Queenie’s shaking form.

 

* * *

 

They put Queenie to bed before Newt shows Tina the letters. She reads them and congratulates him on the position, but the effects of the wine seem to have worn off in all the excitement and she retires to bed shortly after. Newt climbs down into his suitcase to his menagerie of creatures with the nameless pigeon and Theseus’ owl. He fetches Atlas’ water bowl and favorite treats. After giving the giant eagle owl one last affectionate pat and carefully setting the poor pigeon in one of his fluffier scarves to recover, he goes about feeding his various children.

“You are in high-spirits tonight,” A low rumbling purr sounds behind him. Newt turns to see Bastet leap elegantly from a rock, her long lion-like tail swishing from side to side and large almond eyes glimmering like gold in the moonlight. He flushes under the Sphinx's intelligent gaze and busies himself preparing dinner for the Nundu.

"Is it because of him?" She presses on, relentless in her curiosity, "the name you whisper in your dreams."

"Nice try, Bastet, but I do not talk in my sleep," Newt says firmly, lifting the two huge chunks of raw meat in his arms. "How is Ares doing?"

"Agitated by the young ones and the unpredictable weather, but his wounds are healing," Bastet yawns, her breathtakingly beautiful face shifting to expose wickedly sharp fangs. Like many of his other creatures, Newt had rescued the baby Sphinx from an abandoned crypt during one of his trips to Egypt six years ago. It had taken nearly fourteen months for him to fully gain her trust after he’d nursed her back to health, and half of the scars along the right side of Newt's body came from her sharp claws, but over the years, Bastet had become one of Newt’s most treasured companions.

She follows him on light feet, not bothered in the slightest by Newt's refusal to divulge any information on the mysterious Mr. Graves. He parcels half the meat out to the Nundo and brings the rest to an outcropping of rock. Newt sets the meat down and backs away carefully from the dark cave where he takes a seat on the grass and waits for the newest (somewhat unwilling) member of the Scamander Family to come out of his lair.

Ten minutes later, a massive silver-maned Manticore limps slowly into the moonlight. His resilient hide is riddled with scars old and new, the leathery wings on his back in tatters, revealing bony stumps where old wounds had not properly healed. The poachers had severed Ares’ stinger when he had been a cub and sold him to an underground colosseum in Rome where they'd tortured the Manticore for years before Newt had tracked them down in Peru two months ago.

Ares bares his teeth at Newt when he waves from his spot on the grass but does not attack like he had done when Newt had first dragged his unconscious body into the suitcase. Newt knows Manticores are capable of human speech, but all that’s come from the massive lion-like creature have been warning growls for him to back off. Over the past few weeks, Ares has stopped trying to maul him to death, so Newt counts that as a win despite the less-than-warm welcome. He skims his fingers through Bastet’s rough spotted hide while he waits for Ares to finish his meal.

“He is your mate, this Graves,” Bastet seems to be extra persistent tonight.

Newt’s fingers fly to his wrist instinctively. “No, Bastet, stop it.”

“You want him to be. For the first time ever, I can smell desire on you,” She licks one of her massive paws, beautiful almond eyes full of curious amusement, “The children talk amongst themselves. Mommy is in love, they say. Will we soon be expecting more young ones?”

His face is bright red now. “W-what?”

“I suppose we shall decide for ourselves if he is indeed worthy of your affection, Habibi,” She gives him a sharp, slightly threatening smile, muscles bunching as she leaps lightly onto Ares’ rock. He growls at Bastet in warning, but she merely ignores him, her tail flicking the old Manticore teasingly in the face when she slinks off into the undergrowth.

Newt stares after the Sphinx, completely at a loss for words.

How was he supposed to explain to them that two men, even if Mr. Graves somehow returned his feelings, could not produce any children?!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt honey, you completely missed the point of the conversation...
> 
> Another A/N: I'm gonna throw a prompt out there for anyone who would be willing to consider it. I would really like to see a story where Newt dresses as Lily from The Danish Girl and maybe goes to a MACUSA event with Tina and Queenie, and somehow catches Mr. Graves' attention. I would love to see them bone *hides behind a rock*, but just attraction is fine. My birthday's at the end of this month, so...*hopeful puppy eyes*
> 
> I would post this prompt on Tumblr, except I forgot my password and the app eats away at my phone's storage like crazy, so I don't use it anymore... :9 feel free to pass it on if you have Tumblr, but please do give me a poke if someone fills it. XOXOXO
> 
> (Also, next update should be actually after finals. I've been multi-tasking like hell the past two weeks.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You are a virgin?” Mr. Graves’ low steady voice cracks on the last word. 
> 
> Still distracted with the task at hand, Newt answers absently, “It is more convenient to be celibate in my line of work. Makes it easier to approach a hostile or injured creature if you have yet to copulate with another human. You see, sexual activities leave behind a scent mark that one can never fully get rid of, and some creatures find the smell offensive or threatening.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra long chapter! Like 4k of words. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> New character introduced: Isabel Garcia, Senior Auror. My image of her is the actress Stephanie Beatriz. She the only Auror in MACUSA cleared to carry a No-Maj firearm. 
> 
> I love making up shit for the HP world. Lol.

“Boss, we've handed the confiscated items over to Curse Removal this morning, and the traffickers are in Interrogations,” Garcia greets Graves as soon as he steps out of the elevator on Tuesday morning. She’d just gotten back a week ago from a six-month-long mission in Cuba where she had been hunting down an illegal trafficking ring. Dressed in sharp pinstripe grey slacks, matching crisp white shirt with suspenders, and standing at six feet, she is easily one of the most feared Senior Aurors in his department.

“Good, have they confessed the whereabouts of their ring leader?” Graves sheds his coat and hands it to Eisenhower, who had hurried over at the sight of him.

“No, but Lee and I got it covered,” She takes a seat at the edge of a nearby desk, “That time of the month again, Boss?”

 _That time of the month_  was was Auror slang for the excruciatingly boring Magical Congress meetings their Head of Department had to endure every four weeks.

“Unfortunately,” Graves sighs and straightens his tie. “We’ve got a new ambassador to welcome, and there’s the matter of the Obscur- Credence Barebone to deal with.”

She shoots him a sympathetic look. "Hope the new ambassador's at least easy on the eyes."

"Hmm," Graves agrees.

“Sir, did you get a new pet or something? You’ve got fur on your clothes,” Eisenhower stops just outside of Graves’ office. He brushes at his own shirt sleeves, which are partially covered in fine black hair.

“No, I did not,” Graves narrows his eyes. It had been a bit odd that morning, now that he’s paused to think about it. Beside his misplaced pocket watch, a pair of silver cufflinks had gone missing from its box as well-

“Mr. G-Graves, sir,” A feeble voice disrupts his train of thought, and Graves turns to see the newest Junior Auror in training balancing a giant box of baked goods in his arms like an offering to the Gods.

“Yes, Mr. Reynolds?”

“S-sir, would you l-like a cream c-cheese d-d-danish?” The young man stutters.

“No, thank you, I’ve had breakfast,” He says as the two Senior Aurors both reach eagerly for the danishes, “Eric, if certain members of this office are coercing you into some form of underground initiation ritual, I want you to report their names to me. It is not a part of your Auror training to purchase danishes for everyone in the department.”

Eisenhower chokes on his danish.

Graves shoots him an unamused look. “John, you’re going to Congress meeting with me.”

“It wasn’t me, sir, I swear-”

“Swallow before you speak. It's disgusting.”

"Sorry, sir.” Eisenhower quickly covers his mouth.

“Tina, you too. Meet us in fifteen minutes,” Graves calls over the bustle of morning activities at Goldstein who is spacing out by the coffee pot. She sloshes coffee all over the counter at the sound of his voice. Isabel hopping off the desk and cramming the rest of the danish into her mouth is the last straw.

“Need I sign you all up for etiquette classes along with your Auror training?” He gripes at them, irritated.

“Nah, Boss, you can teach us yourself, prim and proper as you are,” Garcia yells after him to the smattering of soft chuckles from a few brave Aurors in the office. “These danishes are amazing. Where’d you get ‘em, Rookie?”

“It’s a new bakery that opened a few blocks away, Kolwaski’s, I think,” Eric’s nervous babble fades into the background as Graves walks into his office and shuts the door.

 

* * *

 

“You know, We should invite Mr. Scamander to lunch today,” Eisenhower says nonchalantly to Tina when they both sit down next to their departmental head on the benches. Mr. Graves often sat next to the President during Congress meetings.

“Why?” Tina asks suspiciously.

John shrugs, “He’s never been to the MACUSA mess hall before, right?”

“Nobody’s been to the mess hall, John. It’s disgusting,” Tina whispers back. Mr. Graves clears his throat pointedly, and they look up to see Newt walk into the room, his head bowed nervously and hands fisting the corners of his beige coat.

"Did your sister intervene?" John leans over and hisses. “Mr. Scamander looks very nice today."

"Yeah, but even she couldn’t beat Newt's hair into submission, I swear, it's like it repells magic or something-"

" _Miss Goldstein._ "

"Sorry, sir," Tina clamps a hand over her lips and cowers under Graves' disapproving gaze as the Madame President stands and calls for everyone's attention. Tina manages to catch Newt's eyes and waves, smiling encouragingly.

Picquery introduces Newt as the new Ministry of Magic Ambassador to MACUSA and a smattering of polite applause greet the words. Tina zones out a little, her attention shifting to the man on her left. Mr. Graves' dark intelligent eyes are trained on Newt, his fingers rubbing absently at his lower lip. The streaks of silver at his temple are more prominent now that she’s taken the time to study his profile. Her Head of Department had been the youngest person in MACUSA history to ever be appointed the position. He’s been the Director of Magical Security longer than Picquery has been president. She can’t imagine the strength and dedication Mr. Graves must possess to deal with what he does on a daily basis for nearly ten years.

“Tina, is there a particular reason you are attempting to drill a hole into the side of my face with your eyes?” It takes a few seconds for the words to sink in. Tina blinks. Graves raises an eyebrow.

“Y-you look very dashing today, sir,” She blurts out before she can stop herself. Eisenhower hides his snort of laughter with a strategic cough. Her face burns. Graves’ lips twitch.

“Thank you, Miss Goldstein, but I’d like you to refrain from staring at your dashing director, whom you can admire anytime, and to pay attention to the proceedings that only happen once a month.”

“S-sorry, sir.” Tina forces her eyes back onto Newt just as Picquery asks, "have I said everything you wish to bring forth to this Council, Mr. Scamander."

Newt takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes firmly glued upon the glittering hem of Picquery’s dress. To Tina’s surprise, he says, “No, not quite, Madame President.”

“Oh?” She sounds intrigued, but Tina hears the underlying note of warning in her voice. Mr. Graves shifts in his seat, leaning forward with interest.

“I wish for Credence to have a wand.”

As soon as the quiet words leave Newt's mouth, there is instant uproar.

"Give that thing a wand? Preposterous!" One of the older Council members yells angrily. Quite a few others make noises of agreement. Tina is completely at a loss for words. Newt had not mentioned anything about a wand to her in the past few weeks.

"A wand will help Credence channel his pent-up magic and-” He tries valiantly to make himself heard over the noise.

"No doubt make him more dangerous." Someone interrupts.

"How can we be sure that this...Mr. Scamander...” The middle-aged woman sitting one row above Tina spits out his name with clear distain, "can even control the thing?"

"I don't seek to control him, I seek to help him. Credence is as much a wizard as you and I," Newt frowns, "He’s not some nameless object."

"Tell me, Mr. Scamander, are you even a pure-blood?" She leans forward and asks. Tina thinks she recognizes her from the Magical Regulations and Restrictions Office.

"What does that have anything to do with this?" Newt asks, flushing under her hawk-like gaze. Mr. Graves’ eyes had narrowed slightly at the exchange.

"Amanda, this is not an interrogation. You are out of line," President Picquery's hard voice interrupts before she can speak again. "We are gathered here to decide possible actions for the introduction of Credence Barebone into the magic world, not to debate Mr. Scamander's birth. Further verbal attacks upon his person shall not be tolerated."

The Madame President then turns to address the man sitting on her right, "Mr. Graves, as Head of Magical Law Enforcement and Director of Magical Security, what have you to say in this matter?"

"A wand has been known to stabilize a wizard’s powers," Mr. Graves says simply, his eyes still on Newt. The magizoologist tries to flash him a grateful smile, but Tina’s Head of Department gives no indication of noticing.

“What of the Obscurus within the boy?” An old silver-haired wizard asks.

“I believe that problem will resolve itself in due course,” Newt explains patiently, “The Obscurus was a manifestation of years of pent-up magic and abuse, if we allow Credence to channel his energy into learning spells and teach him control over his powers, the Obscurus will disappear on its own.”

A few of the council members look grudgingly thoughtful at this idea.

“Gellert Grindelwald was willing to risk capture by impersonating one of the most powerful wizards in MACUSA to track down the Obscurial. There is no doubt Credence is a very special boy with limitless potential. Wouldn't you wish to cultivate him into a prominent wizard under the careful guidance of MACUSA instead of letting him go to waste, or worse, fall into the hands of people like Grindelwald?” He implores desperately.

Tina catches a brief flicker of grudging amusement on Mr. Graves’ face. Even she can tell Newt is trying very hard to preach to the choir now that he sees a slim chance of success.

“Shall we make a decision, then?” President Picquery asks the silent room, but before any of them can express their opinions, the heavy doors to the courtroom are blasted off their hinges, and a dark dense mass hurtles through the enchanted barrier, heading straight for the Congress members.

Tina fumbles her wand, but Mr. Graves shouts “ _Protego!_ ” just in time to erect a Shield Charm around them. The cloud of tittering creatures bounce off of the magical barrier and scatters into the screaming crowd. Mr. Graves is out of his seat in the blink of an eye, reappearing instantly at Newt’s side, wand at the ready. Tina remembers vaguely that he’s one of the few Department Heads allowed apparition rights within MACUSA headquarters.

“They're not dangerous! Just Cornish Pixies!" Newt yells in a muffled voice when Mr. Graves pulls the startled magizoologist to his chest and sends a stream of red sparks overhead.

“Is that your opening line for everything you meet, Mr. Scamander?” Graves snarls, flinging a Stunning curse at the pixies and one of them drops to the floor, eight hairy little limbs akimbo. “How have you not died yet?”

President Picquery had cast a powerful Shielding Charm around the Council members closest to her, but the pixies had spread across the courtroom, dive-bombing startled witches and wizards and scratching at every bit of skin they could reach. Tina spots a tiny frail-looking wizard locked in a fierce tug-of-war with three pixies over the curly wig on his bald head while a fourth steals the wand from his back pocket and sets someone’s buttocks on fire with red-hot sparks.

The spells don't seem to have much effect on the pixies, so she looks around desperately for a physical weapon. Seated a few rows up, Tina spots an old lady clutching a giant handbag to her chest and quaking with terror.

"Ma'am, can I borrow your bag, please?" The old woman seems not to understand English and babbles at Tina hysterically in what sounds like Portuguese. Fed up with explaining, Tina wrestles the bag from her protesting hands and accidentally decks her in the upswing, knocking the old lady off the bench.

“Jesus Christ, Goldstein! That’s the Duchess of Alba you just violently assaulted!” Eisenhower yells loudly from behind. He ducks a charging pixie and proceeds to trip over someone’s flailing legs in his gallant effort to reach her in all the chaos.

“What is the Duchess of Alba doing at our Congress meeting?” She shouts back, breathing heavily and staring in dismay down at the dazed geriatric on the floor. “Ma’am, I’m really really sorry about this," Tina moans and knocks several pixies flying with the duchess' handbag.

A few seconds later, she hears Newt shout a spell and her ears pop as all the pixies suddenly freeze in midair and slowly begin to float serenely up toward the ceiling. She lowers her weapon and squints down at the two men standing in the center of the room. Mr. Graves’ perfectly styled hair had spilled into his dark eyes during the struggle, and Newt is sporting a shallow bleeding cut on one cheek, his mangled bowtie dangling around his neck. They’re both facing the entrance to the courthouse where a hulking creature with blood-red eyes and flaming hooves had appeared.

“Ok, this one might be a bit dangerous,” Newt says weakly into the dead silence. “I think someone tried to breed a fire elemental with a Thestral, which is an amazing feat in itself as fire elementals are-.”

“Now’s not the time for a lecture, Mr. Scamander!” Mr. Graves hisses, looking beside himself with fury. "How do we get rid of it?"

“R-right,” Newt winces and then, to Tina’s horror, begins to quickly strip his clothes off his body. He shoves his coat unceremoniously into Mr. Graves’ arms.

“What do you think you’re doing, Mr. Scamander?” Her Head of Department asks in a maddeningly polite voice when Newt discards his waistcoat and opens the top three buttons of his white shirt.

“Stand back, Mr. Graves,” He warns when the Director of Magical Security instinctively steps forward to attack. “Like Minotaurs, elementals prefer the virgin touch of the fairer sex.”

Newt cocks his head to the side, revealing the pale smooth column of his throat as he ventures closer.

Behind him, Mr. Graves’ voice is dripping with exasperated sarcasm, “Surely you are not going to try and pass yourself off as a woman, Mr. Scamander. The beast has functioning eyes, last I checked.”

“Shh,” Newt whispers softly, and the entire Council seem to be holding their collective breaths alongside Tina. He reaches out his right hand, letting it hover inches over the fiery Thestral's nose, “it’s alright, darling. Eyes on me. I’ve got you. Come on."

Steam curls from the beast's nostrils, but, to Tina's amazement, its red eyes slip shut and the elemental closes the distance between them, allowing Newt to press his open palm to its translucent skin. He smiles and runs soft fingers over its heaving flank in an attempt to calm the animal down.

“Virgin's touch, Mr. Graves,” He turns to shoot the Director of Magical Security a shy smile, “the truth is that most creatures cannot distinguish between the male and female human, but they can sense whether one’s purity is intact.”

“Oh man, we’re definitely inviting him to lunch today,” Eisenhower pants, clawing up Tina’s trouser leg and clutching the stitch in his side. Tina elbows him with a fierce glare.

“You are a virgin?” Mr. Graves’ low steady voice cracks on the last word.

Still distracted with the task at hand, Newt answers absently, “It is more convenient to be celibate in my line of work. Makes it easier to approach a hostile or injured creature if you have yet to copulate with another human. You see, sexual activities leave behind a scent mark that one can never fully get rid of, and some creatures find the smell offensive or threatening.”

“I need some sort of container, Mr. Graves.” He adds, stumbling a little when the crossbred beast nuzzles him forcefully. But Mr. Graves has frozen to the spot, a faint splotch of red slowly crawling up his starch collar. Tina’s Head of Department seems to be having great difficulty processing the information Newt had just so openly shared with the entire Magical Congress of America.

“ _Virg-_ ”

“Director Graves, containment please,” President Picquery’s impatient voice finally sends him into action. With a quick flick of his wrist, the nearest ink bottle flies to his hand. Mr. Graves removes the ink with a vanishing spell and moves to hand it over to Newt. The elemental snorts uneasily, tossing its flame-like mane and stamping its hooves. It leaves black burn marks on the courtroom floor with each step. Graves narrows his eyes in displeasure when Newt hurriedly shoos him away.

“Place it on the ground and back off. He sees you as a potential threat.” To Tina's immense surprise, Mr. Graves does as he is told without any argument.

Newt quickly places an enlargement charm within the glass bottle and holds it out in front of him, “Come, there’s a good chap, in you go.” He guides the elemental to the mouth of the bottle, and with a soft swooshing sound, it is drawn swiftly into the glass bottle. Newt puts the stopper in place with a triumphant cry, beaming happily as he turns to face Mr. Graves.

“Not so dangerous after all, is it-” Newt's voice fades when he sees the incredulous faces of the Congress members staring back at him. Reddening instantly, he fumbles the collar of his shirt close and snatches his coat from Mr. Graves’ outstretched hand, hanging his head as he quickly dresses. While everyone is distracted by Newt’s partial nudity, Tina gingerly returns the incriminating handbag to the Duchess of Alba and takes a few steps away from her.

“ _Mr. Stilinski._ ” If voices could kill, the diminutive man that had come charging into the courtroom after the elemental would be a smoldering pile of ash on the ground by now.

“Madame President, Mr. Graves, sir,” He moans in terror, “I didn’t mean to-I mean, it was an accident.”

“Explain yourself,” President Picquery demands.

“They came out of the confiscated items from the Trafficking case today, His voice gets smaller and smaller. “We couldn’t find any curses on them, so Brian opened a few. No one suspected that they contained live creatures…”

“You could’ve used a revealing charm beforehand,” Newt offers kindly and hands the sealed ink bottle back to the man. He gestures to the floating pixies overhead, “Also, you need a sturdy iron cage for those. Cornish Pixies prefer a diet of caterpillar larvae and flower nectar.”

“Stilinski!” A woman’s sharp voice barks from the benches and Tina turns to see the Head of Curse Removal stand with a heavy scowl. “One more incident and it's off to the Wand Permit Office with you!”

“Hey!” Tina’s former supervisor from the Wand Permit Office seems highly affronted by her words.

“We will leave the department heads to sort out their internal problems. Do not forget why we have gathered here today,” Picquery interrupts impatiently before the argument can escalate. Looking somewhat windswept, Mr. Graves runs a hand through his hair and turns to face the Council.

“Shall we take a vote, then?” He asks in a steady voice.

 

* * *

 

“You certainly proved yourself capable with that live show,” Eisenhower flings an arm over Newt’s startled shoulders the moment they exit the courthouse, “So, virgin, huh?”

“Newt, tell him about the mating thing you told us at dinner last night,” Tina says, tucking her hands into her trouser pockets as she follows at a more sedate pace.

Newt’s entire face lights up, “Ah, the male Mudpidgy’s sexual organs are actually located inside the mouth, right beneath the tongue, so when they mate with a female-”

Tina smirks when John snatches his arm back, his smile strained. “Lovely. Lunch, Tina?”

“I probably can’t,” Tina sighs, “Mr. Graves wants me to clear things up with Curse Removal right away.”

“Mr. Scamander, Miss Goldstein, a word please,” They all turn at the sound of Mr. Graves’ voice. He had just emerged from the courtroom with a scowling President Picquery. She murmurs something in his ear and stalks off.

“You hit the Duchess of Alba, Tina?” Graves lowers his voice when Tina walks over reluctantly with Newt, who, oddly, had turned scarlet upon seeing the Diector of Magical Security.

“I was trying to help with the pixies at the time, sir…” Tina mumbles. Mr. Graves exhales loudly.

“She’s eighty-six years old, Goldstein. She could’ve _died_. What were you thinking?”

Her eyes widen with shock, “Oh God, is she alright?!”

“Yes, shaken, but no major injuries. You did save her from the majority of the pixies, so Seraphina and I have talked her out of pressing charge,” He interrupts before Tina can panic. “but I will have to issue an apology on behalf of MACUSA to the embassy. Think with your head next time, Tina, not your fists.”

“Yes, sir. I swear it won’t happen again.” She almost cries in relief when he doesn't dish out additional punishments.

Graves turns his attention to Newt, who fidgets nervously and avoids his eyes, "Mr. Scamander, show me your hands please.”

"I didn't steal back the ink bottle, if that's what you are implying, Mr. Graves," He murmurs softly, sounding a little hurt.

"That is not what I was implying," Graves returns mildly, "your hands, Mr. Scamander."

Under Tina's worried gaze, he slowly withdraws his clenched fists from his pockets.

"Open them."

Newt bites his lip, red-rimmed eyes glued stubbornly on Mr. Graves' silver tie clip as he reluctantly unclench his fingers like a sullen child being deprived of candy. Tina does not expect to see angry red burns seared into his palms where he'd touched the elemental. She also does not expect her boss to gently take Newt's injured hands in his and pass a slow palm over the burns while chanting a healing spell under his breath.

She suddenly recalls the rumor that had circulated in the department when she'd first arrived, that Mr. Graves had been one of the rare Ilvermorny students who had been accepted to more than one House. Wampus and Pukwudgie, the rumor had said, polar opposites, warrior and healer.

Tina thinks she can see why.

"I usually do not prefer this method of recovery, Mr. Scamander," Graves continues in that mild voice, "pain should be allowed to linger to fully teach its lesson. However, as you are about to head out for lunch with certain members of my department, I thought it best for you to have full functionality in all of your limbs.”

Newt’s ears, poking out from under his wild brown curls, have turned a flaming shade of red.

“My suggestion is not to accept any drinks from them,” Mr. Graves brushes his thumb over the congealed cut on Newt's cheek, the skin quickly knitting back together at the contact. His handsome face devoid of any expression, Tina’s Head of Department fixes Newt's bowtie and straightens his crooked shirt collar. He takes a step back when he’s done, but Newt follows the movement of his hands, leaning in before he can stop himself. "I will have Tina bring you the paperwork for Credence's release tonight."

"Thank you, Mr. Graves," Newt mumbles down at his shoes, cheeks pink. Then, as if gathering his courage, he looks up with a hopeful expression on his face, “w-would you like to join us?"

Graves shakes his head, "I'm afraid I must decline, Mr. Scamander. There are very pressing matters to deal with."

To Tina’s confusion, Newt looks heartbroken at his refusal, and his healed hand unconsciously seeks out his right wrist. It’s a nervous tic of his she’d noticed a while back.

“Have a great day, Mr. Graves,” Newt says before reluctantly making his way back to Eisenhower. Tina bids Newt goodbye with a small nod. Eisenhower had gestured Garcia and Lee over as well. Mr. Graves sighs quietly when John wraps an arm around Newt's shoulder and reels the startled magizoologist in for a rowdy introduction.

"Tina, Curse Removal can wait. Go with them, I don't want to issue another apology to the embassy if the British ambassador gets molested by one of my Senior Aurors on his first day," He waves her off when Tina opens her mouth to protest, "I am giving you permission to put the Full-Body Binding Curse on Eisenhower if he misbehaves. Dismissed."

She stares after him, and it suddenly occurs to her that a man of Mr. Graves’ status must be awfully lonely. Then Eisenhower calls her name and with nothing better to do, Tina goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Newt took off his coat and vest because he wanted to appear smaller and less threatening. 
> 
> My stinking finals are still not over. Sweet Baby Jesus, I am literally about to die. 
> 
> I need all the love!!!!! 
> 
> If I don't update next week, assume I have perished in the war against Finals. :....(


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sits down next to the boy and says quietly, “I thought it appropriate for you to have your own suitcase and notebook if you are to be my apprentice, Credence. You can fill it with things you find during our travels and write your own stories from now on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My finals are finally over!!!!! Good God. *sob* 
> 
> This chapter is about Credence. I feel like he would really love Jacob if they got to meet in the movie, so they get to meet in here.

The man with the kind smile visits Credence in the wizard hospital from time to time. Mr. Scamander's eyes remind him of the summer sky, a brilliant cloudless blue, full of life and warmth. Credence can't help but be drawn towards him, in a way that is not a desperation to please, but something peaceful and much sweeter.

Credence is fond of Tina, but he likes it best when Mr. Scamander comes alone. Alone is when Credence can have him all to himself, when Mr. Scamander, smelling faintly of earth and lemon grass, would shed his coat, sit by the edge of Credence's hospital bed and read to him. Sometimes, it is excerpts from the manuscript he hopes to publish one day; other times, it is fascinating stories in wizard history. He would allow Credence to curl next to him, his head pillowed on Mr. Scamander's thigh and fall asleep to his soothing voice.

The day Credence is scheduled to be released from Saint Bart's, Mr. Scamander comes to pick him up with the Head of Magical Law Enforcement in tow. It is disarming to think that the man with whom Credence had corresponded for two odd weeks had been an imposter, that he had never actually met the real Percival Graves. Where Mr. Scamander radiates gentle warmth, Mr. Graves has a cold reserved air about him, like that of a frosty winter’s day, powerful yet bleak. It is a sharp cleanliness that is refreshingly opposite of the dark cloying nature of his imposter. However, he is still grateful when Mr. Scamander tells the man to stay outside when he slips into Credence's room.

“Hello, Credence,” Smiling fondly at the child, Mr. Scamander lifts his left arm, from which a familiar-looking suitcase hangs. Credence watches him warily when he lays the case down at the foot of his bed and places a parcel wrapped in paper on the visitor’s chair.

“Go on and open it,” Mr. Scamander urges.

Scooting forward cautiously, he unlatches the clasps of the suitcase and lifts the lid. The furry black creature he had befriended a few weeks back leaps into Credence’s arms with practiced ease and a bit of the tension seeps out of his body at the soft warm contact. The Niffler’s rapid heartbeat is a comforting rhythm against his skin when it wriggles onto his lap and settles. This case, unlike Mr. Scamander's magical menagerie, is empty except for a handsome leather-bound journal. Credence stares up inquisitive at Mr. Scamander, whose soft smile takes on an edge of sadness.

He sits down next to the boy and says quietly, “I thought it appropriate for you to have your own suitcase and notebook if you are to be my apprentice, Credence. You can fill it with things you find during our travels and write your own stories from now on.”

“My own…?” He can hardly believe his ears, eyes blurring with hot tears when he brushes trembling fingers over the fancy spine of the journal. “I don’t know what to say, I-”

- _do not deserve such kindness._

“It's ok to be happy, Credence," Mr. Scamander murmurs softly, laying his warm calloused hand lightly over Credence’s knee as if he knows exactly what the boy is thinking. They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes before Mr. Scamander clears his throat and scowls down at the Niffler nuzzling at Credence’s chest. “Cough it up. Come on, don’t make me hex you.”

Credence peers curiously down at the creature. It looks between them and blinks innocently. Mr. Scamander snaps his fingers. Tiny furry shoulders sagging resignedly, the Niffler reluctantly pulls a beautiful silver fountain pen from its magic pouch. Mr. Scamander presents the pen to him with a beaming smile, “A gift from Mr. Graves, Credence. It is charmed with a spell that provides limitless ink.”

Credence glances swiftly out of the door. Mr. Graves seems to be deep in conversation with one of the Aurors that had been watching over Credence during the past week. His sternly handsome profile is barely visible from where Credence sits. Somehow, Mr. Graves does not seem like the kind of man who would easily give out presents, but he murmurs a word of thanks anyway.

“Ah, before I forget,” Mr. Scamander says, grabbing the parcel from the chair and unwrapping it to reveal a bright red coat. He smiles excitedly, “To complete the magizoologist look, Credence. Nice deep pockets for the creatures to curl up in.”

"What do you think?” He asks when Credence slips it on and runs his fingers slowly over the soft wool.

“I love it, sir,” Credence answers with a shy smile that Mr. Scamander returns readily. The door clicks open and they both turn to see Mr. Graves and the Auror slip inside.

“Is everything in order, Mr. Scamander?” The Director of Magical Security asks briskly.

“Ah, yes. I apologize for the wait, Mr. Graves,” Mr. Scamander jumps to his feet, looking slightly flustered under the man’s steely gaze. “Thank you for taking the time to accompany me today.”

“I was merely doing my job, Mr. Scamander,” Mr. Graves says. Then, he frowns down his nose at Credence’s bright red coat, "We must find the boy proper clothes.”

“Oh?” Mr. Scamander asks, straightening Credence’s crooked collar and raising an eyebrow at Graves. “Do you question my aesthetic choices, Mr. Graves?”

“I thought that was painfully obvious, Mr. Scamander,” Director Graves replies, the hems of his plain black coat billowing dramatically around his long legs as he walks out into the hallway. “You stick out like a sore thumb in the streets of New York City.”

Mr. Scamander lets out an affronted sputter, his fingers spasming along the silver-lined lapels of his sapphire blue coat. He draws himself up to his full height and says rather indignantly, “I’ll have you know, Mr. Graves, that I am at the forefront of British wizard fashion."

"Well, we're not in Britain right now, are we, Mr. Scamander? American wizards prefer more sensible tones," Mr Graves says drily, eyeing the colorful duo with a critical frown. The Auror standing behind him seems to be trying his best to stifle his laughter. Looking a bit put-out by the Director's merciless words, Mr. Scamander turns to him.

“Ready to come home, Credence?” His new master asks, holding out his hand. Without an ounce of hesitation, he reaches across the distance and slips his fingers into Mr. Scamander’s warm palm.

For the first time in his life, Credence cannot wait to go home.

 

* * *

 

Jacob Kowalski’s life has never flowed smoother.

His stroke of good fortune had begun with the discovery of the abandoned silver, and now, the gods had blessed him with startlingly good business within a month of opening his bakery. Kowalski’s Baked Goods now had quite a few loyal customers who graced his shop daily. Then, when he’d started worrying about his bold act of purchasing the entire building and all the empty space above the bakery going to waste, a young British gentleman had strode into his shop one day and asked to rent the remaining rooms for a staggering amount of money. The man, a Mr. Newton “call me Newt” Scamander, had flat out refused to reduce the offer when Jacob had informed him of the current American housing rates, so Jacob had offered to cook for the man and his apprentice as a bit of compensation instead. This exchange seemed to greatly please Mr. Scamander, who had shaken Jacob’s hand with a brilliant smile and departed shortly after purchasing a dozen scones.

Jacob does not see the man again for two weeks, and when he does, there is a pale, malnourished-looking boy at his side.

They do look rather peculiar standing in the busy crowd with their flashy coats and two battered suitcases at their feet, and for a moment, the image is startlingly familiar, like something out of the fantastical depth of his dreams. Jacob takes off his apron and hurries over to greet them. Mr. Scamander introduces his apprentice as Credence, sixteen years old. The boy takes his hand shyly when Jacob offers it with a warm smile. He is very taken aback when he feels Credence’s uneven and calloused palm. It’s a texture Jacob is very familiar with, having seen the same kind of scars left on hands of an orphaned boy during the war. Credence breaks the contact and quickly follows his master up the stairs.

The previous owners of the building had a dumb-waiter installed in the back of the kitchen, and he finds it a very convenient setup. That night, Jacob makes sure to put an extra cream scone in the boy’s dinner tray before sending it up.

 

* * *

 

Jacob’s life has fallen into a comfortable routine. He wakes before dawn, assembles the materials needed for the day and pays the boy who delivers his fresh supplies at five in the morning. Then, he goes about baking the first batch of goods for the day. Jacob makes breakfast for three and sends two portions up via the dumb-waiter. Mr. Scamander and his apprentice usually finishes their food within thirty minutes and send the cleaned trays back down.

His first customers are mostly white collar, men and women in important business attire bustling in for a cup of hot coffee and a danish before heading to work in the heart of Newt York’s finance district. He’d set out tables and chairs for them at the front of the shop, and it makes Jacob’s day when he glances up occasionally during the busy hours to find two complete strangers sitting together and having a conversation while eating. He lives for these tiny moments of humanity in this otherwise isolated world.

Mrs. Pellegrini comes in around noon, her gaggle of grandchildren fanning out like a flock of geese inside the shop while she drags a chair over to Jacob’s register and chats with him about her day. She reminds him of his own grandmother, albeit a hardened Italian version who speaks very little comprehensible English. They communicate mainly through hand gestures and awkward laughs on Jacob’s side. She’s been trying very hard to set him up with a young Italian girl in her neighborhood after she’d tasted his focaccia bread. He always declines politely. It’s not that Jacob does not want to settle down and make a family, he does, but something inside tells Jacob that he’s already met the woman to whom his heart belongs entirely. He gets glimpses sometimes, in between dreams of mystical creatures, there is a siren of a girl, a seductive temptress with beautiful hazel eyes and golden curls. Every time Jacob tries to recall the remnants of his dreams, an odd headache would settle in and he’d be forced to abandon his efforts.

It feels like he is missing a piece of his heart, but Jacob’s bakery is a roaring success, so he wakes at exactly the same time each day, kisses his grandmother’s portrait, and goes about his day tending the shop and sending up food to his mysterious tenants. Jacob does not have time to ponder the empty ache inside his chest.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Scamander is an odd man. From the short conversations they’ve had, Jacob gathers that he is a scientist of some sort. Mr. Scamander smiles at him like an old friend every time they speak, and Jacob gets a sense of déjà vu that they’ve crossed paths before. Most of the time, however, Mr. Scamander stays upstairs. Jacob hears occasional thumps and small explosions from time to time, and one time, the trumpeting honk of some unidentifiable animal. His ceiling has yet to cave and the building is still upright, so Jacob does his best to ignore the odd happenings above.

Credence he sees even less of.

Jacob knows the scars on the boy’s hands do not come from Mr. Scamander. He guesses the man had rescued Credence from a previous abusive environment. Jacob respects compassion in a man.

A week after the duo move in, Jacob chances upon the boy in the back alley when he goes out to dump the trash. He’s very easy to spot in his bright red coat and distinct haircut. Credence is crouched in a corner, his back to Jacob as he pulls out a few scones from his pockets and hands them to two small girls.

“These are all I could get my hands on. I’ve been saving them from every meal,” He whispers urgently, “Go on, take them, Modesty. You two need to eat.”

They jump apart when Jacob clears his throat. The girls quickly bolt down the alley and disappear through a crack in the metal fencing.

“I’m s-so sorry, Mr. Kowalski, I-” Credence has gone a ghastly gray, trembling from head to toe. The boy hunches in upon himself as if expecting Jacob to strike him.

“Credence, who were they?” Jacob asks, placing a gentle hand upon the boy’s shoulder instead.

“My sisters from the o-orphanage,” He answers, voice cracking and tears swimming in his eyes. “P-please don’t tell Mr. Scamander. I’m really sorry.”

“I won’t tell him if you don’t want, but do they have a place to go to? Are they hungry?” Jacob is right to be worried because the streets of New York City are not kind to young girls. Credence nods wordlessly, tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Credence, those scones were for you,” He squats down to peer kindly into the boy’s red-rimmed eyes. “If your sisters are hungry, don’t ever hesitate to come to me for food, understand? And we can set up a few cots in the back of the bakery if they need a place to stay. I could do with a few helping hands in the kitchen.”

He watches disbelieve flash in the boy’s face, and the tears come harder than ever, his small frame shuddering with the force of his sobs. Jacob gathers the boy close and runs a comforting hand down Crendence’s spine. “It’s going to be alright, son.”

Jacob lets him wrap skinny arms tightly around his neck and soak his apron with his wet tears. He closes the bakery early that day and they spend the afternoon sprinting down numerous alleys and calling out the names of Credence’s sisters.

 

* * *

 

The boy comes down more frequently after that.

Credence is content just to sit in a corner and listen to Jacob talk about his love of baking. He makes for excellent company, and Jacob often sneaks in a few treats for him under the excuse of needing a taste-test. It is always a pleasure to see the boy’s eyes widen in amazement and color to flush through his pale cheeks as he chews and swallows. Mr. Scamander is not terribly fond of sweets, but Credence has a crippling weakness for Jacob’s handmade cream puffs.

He gives the boy a proper haircut a few days later. The long strands had started falling into his eyes, and when they are done, Credence peers into the bathroom mirror and breathes, “Oh Lord, I look like Mr. Graves.”

Jacob doesn’t know who Mr. Graves is, but Mr. Scamander looks equal parts grateful and mortified when he comes down to fetch his apprentice two hours later. There is what looks like mud smeared liberally along his left cheek.

“I suppose he would be pleased,” The man murmurs.

“It’s the popular style right now,” Jacob defends his choice.

To his surprise, Mr. Scamander chuckles somewhat fondly, “Yes, I wouldn’t be surprised. Our dear Director is awfully stylish, isn’t he, Credence?”

“Thank you, Mr. Kowalski,” Credence calls politely after him when the man abruptly hauls his apprentice upstairs.

 

* * *

 

His dreams come in more vivid images now. They are so real that Jacob thinks he can just open his eyes and touch the corporeal beings that spring to life within his mind. He channels them into his baking, rendering the magical creatures out of dough and bits of dried fruit and nuts.

“That is an Erumpent,” Credence tells him one day, pointing to the rhinoceros-like bread. The boy had offered to help out when his customers had become too much for Jacob to deal with on his own. The approaching Christmas holidays had thrown everyone into a mad frenzy to purchase as many baked goods as possible.

“Oh, we’re making up names for 'em now, huh?” Jacob grins teasingly, “Well, let’s see, this one,” he points to another bread in the shape of a platypus, “this one we can call a Niffler.”

“It _is_ a Niffler,” Credence says solemnly, “his name is Clyde.”

“Right,” Jacob chuckles and smears a streak of flour over the boy’s nose. “And I'm a magic unicorn that excretes cotton candy out of my-”

He stops speaking.

There is a woman standing in the snow outside the bakery. A blond woman in a shell pink fur coat. Jacob’s heart leaps to his throat.

“Mr. Kolwalski, where are you going?” Credence jumps when he sprints for the door, but he does not have time to explain.

“It’s you,” Jacob breathes, hardly daring to believe his eyes when he comes to a stop in the thick snow. The girl from his dreams is standing right in front of him. It is bitingly cold and he is horribly underdressed in his dirty apron, but Jacob only has eyes for the lovely mirage in front of him. He suddenly recalls the tale his mother had told him, of the Little Match Girl who’d struck three matches and saw three lovely hallucinations before she froze to death on Christmas Eve.

She laughs softly, a lovely crystal-like sound that warms his entire being. He feels heat bloom in his face when she takes a tentative step forward and cups his cheek in one soft gloved hand.

“You are not imagining things, honey,” She says, beautiful eyes brimming with unshed tears. His own vision blurs when he wraps his trembling fingers around hers, and it feels as if he’s been waiting for her his entire life.

“I dreamt of you,” Jacob breathes, the awful empty feeling in his chest fading with her warm touch, “every night.”

“Oh, Jacob,” She says sadly, pressing their foreheads together, and the name comes to him like a fond caress from an old lover.

“ _Queenie_ ,” He whispers against her lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will have more Gramander interactions. They're getting Credence a wand!
> 
> Your feedback keeps my updates constant! Thank you guys so much! Happy Holidays!


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I may ask, Mr. Graves. Where are we going?” Newt feels like he’s about to pass out from the light-headed giddiness coursing through his veins. Mr. Graves’ scarf smells faintly of fresh pine mingled with something warm and earthy like tobacco ash, and Newt wants to bury his face in the man’s neck and find out if his skin tastes the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Gramander interactions in this chapter. Enjoy and drop me a comment!

“Mr. Scamander, have you procured a date for the Winter Ball?”

“Sorry, what?” Mr. Eisenhower’s question catches Newt off guard. The Aurors in Graves’ department had rapidly warmed up to the magizoologist over the past month, and that morning, Newt had brought Credence over to the Auror Office after summoning the courage to send a MACUSA pigeon to Mr. Graves requesting his assistance in picking out a wand for the boy. Mr. Graves had told Newt to wait for him outside his office, so here they were.

“The Winter Ball. It’s the biggest MACUSA event of the year,” Eisenhower explains, propping his legs up on a neighboring desk and loosening the black tie around his neck, “it's basically a huge interdepartmental Christmas party. You know, good food, music, and beautiful women in fancy dresses.”

“I see."

“Queenie’s been talking non-stop about her outfit for the past week,” Tina pipes up from her desk, rolling her eyes.

"Now that’s a fine-looking gal that I wouldn’t mind a fostering a bit of inter-departmental relations with," Eisenhower leers.

“In your dreams, John,” Tina replies without pause, not even bothering to lift her head from the thick dusty leather-bound copy of 20th Century International Magical Regulations, the 455th Official Revised Copy. Not bothered at all by her words, he winks cheekily at the magizoologist.

“Any plans?" Isabel Garcia, who had perched herself on the edge of Eisenhower's desk when Newt had arrived, nudges his thigh with her boot.

“I’m afraid I must decline. I’m not very good with social events,” Newt confesses honestly. She exchanges a look with Eisenhower.

“All the foreign ambassadors are required to attend,” John says slowly.

“Oh dear, that’s unfortunate,” Newt feels dismay settle in the pit of his stomach. Credence gives him a worried look that Newt tries his best to reassure with a forced smile.

“Tina, you’re a girl,” Eisenhower throws a pencil at her. It misses and lands on the empty desk behind Tina.

“Thanks for noticing.” She says dryly.

“Go to the Ball with me?”

“You were just drooling over my sister less than a minute ago.” Tina tosses the pencil back. It bounces off of John’s forehead. “The answer is no.”

“I was just joking,” the blond man whines, swiveling in his chair, “you’re the prettier of the two. Come on, Tina, don’t make this difficult for me in front of Mr. Scamander. Also, I technically outrank you, Goldstein, so don’t make me pull the boss card.”

Newt smiles.

Tina’s cheeks are pink when she aims a fierce glare at him. “The answer is still no, Mr. Eisenhower. And besides, Mr. Graves said not to go with someone in our department this year. Because otherwise, it’ll just be the whole Auror Office standing off to one side in a pack and scowling threateningly at anyone who dares to approach.”

“Yeah, remember two years ago when Lee accidentally Stunned that poor girl from HR when she’d tapped on his shoulder to ask him for a dance?” Garcia chuckles fondly, “ah, good times.”

Credence aims a very dubious look at his master. Newt shakes his head with an amused smile and inquires curiously, “what about Mr. Graves?”

“Boss usually attends with President Picquery,” Garcia’s answer does not come as a surprise to Newt.

“Actually, I overheard at lunch that she’s been asked by the Italian Vice Prime Minister this year, so Mr. Graves should be fair game,” Eisenhower strokes his chin thoughtfully, “not that anyone in the whole of MACUSA has the spine or the stupidity to ask _him_.”

Garcia snorts, “He’d probably make them write a twenty-page report on inappropriate workplace behavior.”

“Or demote them to Wand Regulations,” Tina adds darkly.

“You really need to let that go, Goldstein,” Garcia rolls her eyes, “but seriously, he’s gonna have to go with someone. Department Heads always open up the dance each year. It’s going to look real ridiculous if Mr. Graves shows up alone and fondles thin air in front of everyone.”

A murmur of laughter passes through the office, but Newt's palms had gone clammy with a sudden spike of nerves at the news that Mr. Graves was still a potentially open candidate for the Winter Ball. The thought of his intended spinning some faceless woman across the dance floor makes bitter jealousy rise within Newt’s chest. He is so distracted by the little scenario his panicked mind has spun of Mr. Graves’ possible encounter (and subsequent marriage and children) with the faceless woman that he does not hear Mr. Eisenhower ask why his left sleeve is moving.

The Swooping Evil bursts from Newt’s sleeve just as Mr. Graves’ door clicks open. Drawn to moving objects, the creature makes a sharp turn and heads straight for the Director of Magical Security. It bounces off an invisible barrier inches from Mr. Graves’ unflinching face, and Newt hurtles over a Junior Intern’s desk, yelling out an immobilizing spell before anyone can do the beast harm.

“I’m so sorry you had to see that, Mr. Graves. I f-forgot I had him in my sleeve today,” Newt babbles, forcing the blue-green bat-like creature hurriedly back into its cocoon. “He didn’t mean to, it's part of their nature to attack when they sense stress from a family member. They’re actually-"

“- _not dangerous,_ " the Aurors in Graves' department finish for him in unison, flurries of loose report pages still fluttering to the ground in the Swooping Evil’s wake. Newt flushes, fingers going to fumble at his ripped shirt sleeve.

"Yes, well,” He mumbles into the dead silence, face burning with mortification.

"You really should come up with a better catch phrase, Mr. Scamander,” Graves does not look very amused. His dark gray eyes flash when they land on Newt’s closed fist, “Am I correct in assuming that you have filed corresponding permit applications for your various…highly illegal creatures, Mr. Scamander?”

“I-” Newt begins. Mr. Graves’ eyes narrow threateningly.

He quickly backtracks, “Yes, sir. Yes, I have. Right, Tina?”

Tina nods vigorously from her desk. There’s a spot of ink smeared on her chin. She does not look very convincing.

The Head of Magical Law Enforcement reluctantly stops glaring daggers at Newt’s face and nods, “Shall we go, then?”

“Of course,” Newt replies, immensely grateful that the man has decided to drop the subject for the time being.

“Mr. Graves, sir,” Eisenhower calls from his desk, pulling Credence out into the open and pointing excitedly at the boy’s new haircut, “Look, it’s a miniature version of you! Isn’t he adorable?”

Mr. Graves’ reply is a silent spell that suddenly chokes the loose tie around Eisenhower’s neck and sends the man toppling from his chair to the roaring laughter of the other Aurors in the office. Then, he turns to Newt and says calmly, "after you, Mr. Scamander."

 

* * *

 

The entrance to the American version of Diagon Alley is located in Chinatown on the lower east side of Manhattan. As they weave through the crowd, Newt spots exotic spice traders from the Middle East, snake charmers from India, and at least six fortune-telling and palm-reading booths scattered along the street. Here, the magical folk can hide in plain sight. It is a rather brilliant idea. He and Credence have slowed to a crawling pace, lost in the palpable excitement as they eagerly take in as much as they can. Newt doesn't know how far they've wandered until warm fingers suddenly wrap around his, and the magizoologist looks up to find Mr. Graves peering somewhat impatiently down at them. Apparently, he’d doubled back when he had lost track of master and apprentice in the crowded street.

“Apologies. I forgot how overwhelming it is the first time, Mr. Scamander. Come with me,” He bends close to make himself heard over the yells of the street vendors, but Newt had turned scarlet the moment Mr. Graves had taken his hand. He quickly grabs Credence, and under the man's assistance, they successfully navigate their way through the worst of the crowd. Instead of letting go, Mr. Graves had tucked their joint fingers into the warm depth of his overcoat pocket, and Newt is terribly disappointed when they reach a tiny antique shop and Mr. Graves breaks the contact to pull open the door for them.

He realizes that the shop is actually an apothecary when he steps inside and sees the countless shelves of ingredients. A handsome dark-haired young man with fox-like features pops out from behind the counter when he hears the bell, eyes crinkling into a welcoming smile when he spots Mr. Graves.

“Ah, Director Graves, such an honor for you to grace us with your noble presence,” His voice flows smooth like honey with a trace of foreign accent.

“How is your grandfather, Lin?” Graves asks as he approached the counter.

“He is resting. The cold disagrees with his creaky joints,” Lin replies, nodding at Newt and Credence in greeting.

“I see. This is Mr. Newton Scamander and his apprentice, Credence Barebone,” Mr. Graves gestures at Newt, “he is the new MACUSA-approved provider for your shop from now on. Any beast-related materials you will go to him for.”

“Wonderful,” Lin flashes Newt a brilliant smile, “Wong Lin, a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Scamander,” he offers a hand that Newt takes. “We are one of the four major wizarding apothecaries in the country.”

“You are expected to file everything you obtain from him, Lin. I know you are close friends with John, but any more illegal imports from abroad will not be tolerated from this point on,” Mr. Graves cuts the introduction short, displeasure flickering over his face at the sight of their joint hands.

“Certainly,” Lin retracts his arm hurriedly, “Speaking of John, I have a package for him here. Would you mind bringing it back, Mr. Graves?”

“A package?” Graves frowns suspiciously.

“Capricorn horn powder,” Lin confesses.

“It’s a powerful aphrodisiac,” Newt explains just as Lin says gleefully, “It keep one’s penis hard for many hours, sir.”

A vein pulses violently in Graves’ temple when he grits out, "Mr. Eisenhower does not require a hard penis to write his reports. I suggest you get rid of it.”

“But-”

“ _Get rid of it, Lin!_ ” Graves barks sharply.

“Right,” The young Chinese man quickly pockets the powder. “I assume you are going to Broadway Street, sir?”

“Yes, we need to visit the wandmakers,” Mr. Graves says, still looking furious. Newt debates whether or not he should send his Patronus back and warn poor Mr. Eisenhower to hide in advance.

“Follow me,” Lin says cheerfully, beckoning them to the back of the shop where Newt sees twenty or so keyholes in a circular dial on a small battered door. Lin pulls out a thick chain of keys and picks a long silver one that he slots into the center of the circle.

When the door swings open, Newt finds himself standing in a similar street like that of downtown Manhattan. American witches and wizards seem to quite enjoy Muggle attire, so at first glance, nothing appears to be out of the ordinary. Then, Newt spots a floating tea set in a nearby display window, and a few paces down, a faceless mannequin waves cheerfully at passersby as she pirouettes prettily on her pedestal. Across the street, the Jack Russell terrier a woman is walking wags its forked tail. When Newt turns to bid Lin goodbye, the door has turned into a brick wall behind him.

“Jonker’s is around that corner,” Mr. Graves says, gesturing for the two to follow him. Credence suddenly looks very hesitant to move, his prior excitement gone in an instant as he peers fearfully down the street.

“What’s wrong?” Newt asks gently, bending down to speak to the child.

“W-what if none of the wands choose me, Mr. Scamander?” He whispers down at his shoes. Newt had explained the process as best as he could last night.

Before Newt could reassure his apprentice, Mr. Graves snorts dismissively and draws himself to his full intimidating height, “There are four major wandmakers in the United States, and all are all connected via portkey, Credence. If Jonker’s does not suit your tastes, we can easily go to another. The wizard picks the wand here in America, not the other way around.”

Newt has to hide his smile when Credence’s eyes widen, and the fear behind them quickly replaced with a burning determination as he sets his jaw and jerks his head in a quick nod. Mr. Graves catches Newt’s eyes atop the boy’s head and smirks, and Newt is suddenly struck with the strong urge to reach over and kiss his intended silly.

Instead, he offers Credence a comforting smile, and the three of them set off down the street together.

 

* * *

 

Mr. Jonker is an ancient man with frazzled white hair sticking every which way and thick glasses that magnify his electric blue eyes into huge round disks. He’s dressed in a smart black waistcoat and a platinum silver tie.

“Merlin’s saggy balls,” The thin old man wheezes at the sight of Mr. Graves. “Lil’ Percy Graves, all grown up. I haven’t seen you since you were wee tall.”

“And for good reason,” Mr. Graves mutters darkly under his breath as he brushes moisture off his coat. It had just started to snow outside. Newt escorts Credence into the shop and closes the door behind them. Johannes Jonker’s shop is a sleek modern thing, with beautiful glass displays of smooth, tapered wands lying in velvet boxes.

“Finally broke your wand, Perce?” The old man cackles, hopping off his stool and walking over to the trio. “Come on then, old boy. Whip it out so I can fix it.”

“I did not, Mr. Jonker,” Graves replies dryly, “we are here to purchase a wand for this child.”

“A bit old to be getting your first wand, aren’t you?” Jonker squints up at Newt and Credence suspiciously. “You one of his Aurors?”

“No, I’m a magizoologist, sir,” Newt smiles and exchanges a brief glance with Mr. Graves who seems to be fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

“A wizard, then. Who made your wand?” The old man guides them over to the display cases where he pulls out a large piece of silk cloth and lays it over the glass.

“Ollivanders in London,” Newt takes his wand from his coat pocket and hands it over to Mr. Jonker.

“Ah, ash and lime, with a rare mixed core. Very nice,” He runs long fingers over the base and turns it over for a thorough examination, “12 1/2", nice moderate length. This is a gentle wand, Mister-”

“Scamander,” Newt answers hastily.

“They all have temperaments, just like people, Mr. Scamander. Now, Percy’s is what I would call an aggressive wand,” He holds out an expectant hand. Mr. Graves heaves an exasperated sigh before withdrawing his own wand and passing it over. Newt has never really paid any attention before, but Mr. Graves' wand is a shiny onyx black with a simple silver band three-fourths down the length and a silver cap at the end. It looks rather like the fancy canes British aristocrats sometime use.

“15 3/4", ebony, Wampus hair core, one of the longest I’ve ever crafted in my entire career,” Mr. Jonker says, “Most wizards do not have the sheer power to command such lengths, because the longer the wand, the more magic you need to channel into it for spell casting. I see you’ve been taking good care of it, Perce,” He lays it onto the cloth next to Newt’s wand and reaches over to rummage for a proper cleaning cloth. “Still remember when you first stepped into my shop with your Gran, scowling like a little demon and telling me stop talking nonsense and get on with it. You were eleven and already acting like forty.”

“History is about to repeat itself if you don’t stop stalling, Mr. Jonker,” Mr. Graves answers in a flat, unamused voice.

“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying,” The old man mumbles. He turns back to the cloth and blinks down at the wands, “Oh, dear.”

Busy whispering to Credence, Newt does not see the strange silver thread that has appeared, linking the two wand tips together, but Graves does. His eyes darken at the strange sight, and before Mr. Jonker can open his mouth, he quickly snatches his own wand back and pockets it.

Mr. Jonker gapes at him, “Good Lord, Perce, he's your-"

“Credence,” Graves ignores his attempt to speak and quickly motions the boy forward. Newt looks up to see both men staring at him with equally strange expressions on their faces. Mr. Graves looks somewhat flustered, but there is an odd glimmer in Mr. Jonker’s intelligent blue eyes. The old wandmaker hands Newt back his freshly polished wand with a slow smile.

“I think I’ll be seeing more of you around, Mr. Scamander,” He says with a wink. Mr. Graves clears his throat loudly and gives the old man a pointed look.

“Right, on to business, follow me, young lad,” Mr. Jonker says, pulling Credence past the display case and into the back. "You two can stay where you are. The wand selection process is highly private."

Credence gulps audibly. Newt offers him an encouraging smile as the boy disappears behind the shelf with the old wandmaker.

 

* * *

 

“I do believe Credence looks up to you, Mr. Graves,” Newt says as the two adults follow Credence at a more sedate pace after exiting the wandmaker’s shop. He does not add that he himself has also grown terribly fond of the man.

Credence had been matched with a rare yew wand, 13 inches, and Wampus hair core. Mr. Jonker’s silver eyebrows had looked somewhat burnt when the two had come back. He’d wrapped the wand carefully in its black velvet box before handing it over to the boy with a mysterious twinkle in his blue eyes.

“It is said that wielders of yew wands have equal potential for greatness and darkness,” Graves replies with a thoughtful frown, “They are not to be taken lightly.”

“Do you believe Credence capable of doing evil, Mr. Graves?” Newt asks curiously, turning to look at him.

The Director of Magical Security studies him for a moment before admitting quietly, “Not under your care, no.”

The unexpected words bring heat to his cheeks. Newt opens his mouth to speak but sneezes instead, shaking snow out of his brown curls. Graves sighs and pulls the navy blue scarf from around his neck. He drapes the warm wool over Newt’s startled shoulders.

“Mr. Graves, you needn't-”

“I insist, Mr. Scamander,” Graves interrupts. His hand settles at the small of Newt’s back and gives the magizoologist a gentle push forward. “Come, the shop is not far from here.”

“If I may ask, Mr. Graves. Where are we going?” Newt feels like he’s about to pass out from the light-headed giddiness coursing through his veins. Mr. Graves’ scarf smells faintly of fresh pine mingled with something warm and earthy like tobacco ash, and Newt wants to bury his face in the man’s neck and find out if his skin tastes the same.

“The tailors,” Mr. Graves says when the golden letters of _Malloy & Sons_ come into view. “I was serious when I said the boy needed proper clothes.”

“It is a Graves family tradition. Mr. Mallory has been our tailor for as long as I can remember,” He explains when Newt opens his mouth to object, “Every boy in the family gets a bespoke suit the day he picks out a wand. I thought it appropriate for Credence to get fitted today.”

“Oh, Mr. Graves, I don’t know what to say,” Newt breathes, stunned at the man’s kindness.

“You need not say anything, Mr. Scamander. I much prefer it when you do not argue with me,” With a mildly sardonic smile, Mr. Graves ushers both master and apprentice through the doors to _Mallory & Sons_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what, there's going to be fluff before things get a bit angsty. 
> 
> AN1: I made Credence's wand yew. Interesting fact, Voldemort's wand was also yew, 13½", with a phoenix feather core. You can read more about yew wands and their masters on the Harry Potter Wiki: http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Yew 
> 
> AN2: Potter Lore says that the wand picks the owner, but Graves lied a bit here to reassure Credence. 
> 
> AN3: I made it that the gateway to the American version of Diagon Alley was in Chinatown. 
> 
> Feel free to ask me any questions!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “…show me,” He breathes the words in a rough whisper, calloused fingers like a burning hot brand around the delicate circle of the magizoologist's wrist. Newt’s own breath hitches in his throat when he feels Graves’s thumb trace over the sensitive skin of his inner wrist where the Wampus tail is imprinted into his flesh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, finally some intimate interaction! I'm visiting a friend at the moment, so it has been difficult to find time to properly write in the past few days. 
> 
> It's already 2017 here! 
> 
> Happy New Year, everyone!

Upon entering, Newt can immediately tell that _Mallory & Sons_ belongs to old money. Beautifully cut tuxedos in glass displays filled with enchanted fairy lights are displayed on each wall, and even the house elves are dressed in black waistcoats. Before Newt even has time to take it all in, a handsome man in a sharp pinstripe suit steps from behind the counter and pulls Mr. Graves into a tight embrace.

“Percy, I haven’t seen you in ages!” He laughs, delighted. Then, turning to Credence, the man says with a confused frown, “I was not aware you had a son.”

“He is not my son,” Mr. Graves explains patiently, angling his body in a way that partially shielded Newt from the blond man’s curious gaze. “This is Mr. Newt Scamander and his apprentice Credence Barebone. I’m merely bringing them in for a fitting.”

“Crazy resemblance, captain,” The man says, eyes widening, “Alexander Mallory, a pleasure to meet you both” he adds, shaking their hands hurriedly when Graves clears his throat, “Percy and I went to school together. He was my Quidditch captain.”

“Oh?” Newt asks, curious. “What position did you play?”

“Beater,” Mallory grins, “Percy was our keeper. Most of the opponent Chasers were too scared of him to score properly.”

“I was a Chaser back in the day,” Newt smiles.

“He’s still a hell lot intimidating, wouldn't you agree?” Alexander winks at him before turning back to Mr. Graves, “we really must catch up over a drink, old friend. Father would love to see you. He’s on the other side of the shop talking with a No-Maj client.”

“Certainly,” Graves agrees, “if you can escort these two to separate fitting rooms, we can talk in private.”

“Mr. Graves?” Newt blinks at the unexpected words.

In a stunning display of cunning wit, Graves says, “You would’ve surely refused had I told you earlier, Mr. Scamander.”

“I-”

“-need proper attire for the Winter Ball. The dress code is very strict for this one, I’m afraid,” He interrupts smoothly, “consider it an early Christmas present from me, Mr. Scamander. ”

Newt is still slack-jawed with disbelief when a nearby house elf half-drags half coaxes him into a private fitting room and shuts the door. He stands awkwardly on a stool while the house elf strips him down to his wrinkled shirt and trousers.

“Egyptian blue waistcoat, yes, quite a nice shade to match the eyes and bring out the copper tinge in the hair as per Mr. Graves’ instructions,” The old elf mumbles to herself, scribbling rapidly upon a ledger while a floating measuring tape attacks Newt ruthlessly. She’s done with him in less than fifteen minutes. After instructing Newt to wait, the old house elf apparates away with a loud crack, leaving him alone in the fitting room.

He fidgets for a bit with his torn sleeve and double checks to make sure the Swooping Evil is still locked in its cocoon, but with nothing else to do, Newt makes his way over to the picture frames mounted on one wall. In one, he sees a tall, serious-looking young man standing next to a beautiful brunet woman, his expression fondly exasperated as she laughs and waves from the picture. There is a tiny infant bundled carefully in the man’s arms. Newt reads the caption below: **_The Graves Family (Edward & Penelope Graves and son Percival, 1888)_**.

Newt traces a finger over his soulmate’s chubby baby cheek and almost laughs out loud at the dark expressive brows tiny Mr. Graves is already sporting atop his forehead.

Farther along the wall, a picture of seven men, all wearing black three-piece suits, and standing/sitting beneath a moving banner depicting a roaring feline with the fancy looping letters “Wampus House Reunion.” He recognizes Mr. Graves’ father as the second from the left, his arm held up in a toast and what looks to be a family ring glimmering from his thumb.

There is a rare photo of a smiling Mr. Graves. Already breathtakingly handsome as a teenager, he stands underneath the same banner, dressed in what Newt presumes is the Wampus House Quidditch uniform, one arm around a blond boy that Newt assumes is Alexander, and the other holding a golden trophy. Newt studies the two boys as they wave at the unseen photographer from their black-and-white picture.

“We won the Inter-house Championship that year. I was sixteen." The unexpected voice makes Newt jump. He whirls around to find Mr. Graves standing at the door with a glass of shimmering amber liquid in one hand. “Alexander's father went to school with mine,” He crosses the room in a couple of long strides and comes to a stop next to Newt, standing so close he can feel the gentle heat radiating from the Director of Magical Security. “Mr. Mallory likes to give each fitting room a bit of personality, show off some client history. He used to tell stories of their wild school days whenever I came in for a fitting.”

“Did your father deny all accusations?” Newt asks, amused.

“No,” Graves takes a slow sip from his glass, “although I imagine if he had the time, he might’ve. Father was never at home much. He died in the line of duty the same year we won the Quidditch cup, and my mother passed away shortly after, and I ended up avoiding this place for a long time.”

“I’m so very sorry for your loss, Mr. Graves,” Newt says quietly.

“Had to stay with Helena and her demon gnomes for the summer between my 7th and 8th year,” He murmurs with a frown, “nearly went to join my deceased parents.”

“They cannot be that bad,” Newt turns to him incredulously.

Tina’s department head raises a dark brow at him, “I still have the scars, Mr. Scamander.”

That statement draws a snort of laughter from Newt, and despite the somber topic, Graves' lips twitch a little in the semblance of a smile. The magizoologist shakes his head, “Oh Mr. Graves, if you offer them a bit of marmalade, you could’ve easily avoided the bloodshed.”

“Marmalade?”

“Garden gnomes love it,” Newt explains, eyes still crinkled with mirth. “It’s like catnip for them.”

“Where were you when I was getting dragged under the house?” Mr. Graves asks dryly. He gestures toward the crystal decanter sitting on a nearby table. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Scamander? I confess that American wizards do have a weakness for No-Maj alcohol. I myself am quite partial to Scotch.”

“Oh, no thank you,” Newt answers quickly, “I’ve done terrible things under the influence.”

“Such as?” Mr. Graves pours himself a finger of Scotch, an amused smile lingering at his lips. The alcohol seems to have loosened the Head of Magical Law Enforcement up a bit because Newt has never seen the man smile like that before. It looks very nice on him, and Newt’s cheeks redden at the thought.

“I was fourteen and Theseus, who was twenty-one at the time, took me to the Hog’s Head for a drink that summer. It was one of the shadier pubs in Hogsmeade, and the barman didn’t mind that I was not of age yet, so naturally, I got completely wasted,” Newt mumbles down at his fingers, letting out an embarrassed chuckle at the memory, “Broke a man’s jaw when I heard him boasting about abusing Puffskeins at a neighboring table and started a full-on brawl when his friends joined in. Theseus and I were been banned from ever entering the Hog's Head again.”

“You are just full of surprises, aren’t you, Mr. Scamander?” Shiny Oxfords come to a stop in front of Newt and he looks up to see Mr. Graves peering at him with an expression that could almost be described as fond.

“My brother refused to speak to me for a week after that,” He admits before adding hurriedly, “but I’m truly not that violent, Mr. Graves. I swear.”

“Of course not,” Graves agrees, “but alcohol is useful sometimes.”

“How so?” Newt asks absently, unable to tear his eyes away from Mr. Graves’ handsome face. They are standing close enough to touch, and Newt's heart feels ready to leap out of his ribcage.

“They do not call it liquid courage for nothing, Mr. Scamander,” Graves murmurs, draining his Scotch in one swallow and setting the glass down on the fireplace mantle. He runs a distracted hand through his hair and under Newt’s curious gaze, shrugs off his suit jacket, revealing the form-fitting black vest and crisp white shirt beneath. It is not until the antique record player in the corner crackles to life that Newt finally understands the man’s intentions.

“Oh, no, this is not a good idea, Mr. Graves,” He says immediately, face turning scarlet.

“Why not?” Graves asks. He makes a short bow and holds out his right hand expectantly.

“You are intoxicated, sir,” Newt says breathlessly, “and I am an atrocious dancer, so dreadful that I fear I will cause even more grievous injuries than your grandmother’s gnomes.”

“I shall take the risk, Mr. Scamander,” The Director of Magical Security says dismissively, “besides, we both need a bit of practice for the upcoming event. May I?”

Swallowing past the pounding of his heart, Newt slips his fingers into Mr. Graves’ warm palm and feels the man’s other hand settle gently at his waist. The song in the background is a lazy and flirtatious jazz number he’s never heard before. It reminds Newt of the atmosphere in the dark seedy pub Tina had taken him to meet Gnarlak, a touch mysterious and filled with endless seductive possibilities. He gasps when Mr. Graves suddenly tightens his grip around his waist and brings their bodies flush together.

“Am I boring you, Mr. Scamander?” He asks quietly.

“I could never be bored by you, Mr. Graves,” Newt blurts out without thinking. He bites his lip when he catches the mild amusement in Graves’ gray eyes. Bowing his head, Newt's face burns with embarrassment as they sway slowly to the music. “I just don’t want to accidentally step on your feet.”

“You won’t,” Mr. Graves reassures him, the words rumbling against Newt’s chest. He gestures for Newt to spin and he does without thinking, body automatically following his intended’s silent instructions, “See? Very graceful.”

“Only because it is you that I am dancing with,” Newt says before he can stop himself. His brain-to-mouth filter seems to have disappeared the moment Mr. Graves had taken his hand. Determined not to embarrass himself any further, Newt focuses his attention on the man’s left shoulder and clenches his jaw firmly shut.

“Did your mother teach you to dance, Mr. Scamander?” Graves’ next words are an intimate whisper against his neck. They send a shiver down the magizoologist's spine. Mr. Graves smells faintly of the Scotch he’d been drinking, and Newt feels drunk from the proximity alone.

He swallows and replies in a croak, “yes, uh, she taught Theseus and I at the same time, so we had to partner with each other, although I was always terrible at leading. Trod on Theseus’ feet so many times I lost count.”

“I had a private tutor,” Mr. Graves shares lazily, “She was a mammoth of a woman with bosoms the size of cannon balls. Used to poke me with a stick when I missed a step.”

Despite his nerves, Newt smiles. “That must be where your flawless dance moves came from.”

“Wrong, Mr. Scamander. She got so fed up with me she snapped her stick and quit. Had to learn from the family house elves. They turned out to be fantastic teachers.”

He laughs out loud at the unexpected twist, and Mr. Graves smirks a little at him, “not so nervous anymore, are we?”

Face flushed pink, Newt shakes his head shyly.

“Good.”

In a daring move, he presses his cheek hesitantly against Mr. Graves’ shoulder. The arm around his waist tightens, but otherwise, the man gives no sign of acknowledging the rather inappropriate gesture. The song had changed to something soft and slow, and they are no longer properly dancing, just swaying slowly from side to side, but Newt thinks he can stay like this forever, warm and content in the arms of his intended. Then, he remembers what he’d secretly decided to do the moment they’d left Tina’s office.

Taking a deep breath to gather his courage, Newt lifts his head, “Mr. Graves, I have something to ask of you.”

There is a strange determination in Graves’ handsome face when he answers, “I also have a request, Mr. Scamander.”

Newt’s heart skips a beat.

_Is he about to ask the same question? Does he also want to go to the Winter Ball with Newt?_

Mr. Graves swallows before continuing, “your mark, Mr. Scamander, I would very much like it if you could...”

A strand of dark hair has fallen into his heated gray eyes, and Newt reaches out, helplessly mesmerized as he brushes it back with unsteady fingers. Mr. Graves sighs softly at the contact, his own hand chasing Newt’s right arm and gripping tightly.

“… _show me,_ ” He breathes the words in a rough whisper, calloused fingers like a burning hot brand around the delicate circle of the magizoologist's wrist. Newt’s own breath hitches in his throat when he feels Graves’s thumb trace over the sensitive skin of his inner wrist where the Wampus tail is imprinted into his flesh.

“Please, Mr. Scamander. I _need_ to know,” His usual icy reserve gone, the Director of Magical Security sounds positively desperate.

Oh.

_Oh._

But before Newt can reply, the door to the fitting room bursts open. Alexander strides inside, closely followed by Credence and four house elves holding big fancy boxes.

“Everything alright?” The man asks, eyeing their linked hands with confusion. The record player screeches to a stop as Mr. Graves recoils from Newt like he’d been burnt.

“Yes, we were just talking,” He clears his throat and quickly schools his expression into something neutral, “all is in order, Alexander?”

“You are good to go, captain,” The blond smiles and gestures to the house elves. “Give them an address and they’ll bring the boxes, Mr. Scamander.”

“Thank you,” Newt mumbles, marching across the room to shrug on his discarded clothes. He ducks his head so that young Mr. Mallory cannot see the disappointment on his face. Graves inclines his head at his old school friend and dons his own coat.

“Oh, Percy,” Alexander snags his arm as Mr. Graves is walking out, “since your date for the Winter Ball is the Duchess of Spain’s granddaughter, forgot what her title’s called, Father prepared a little something for you to wear. Dropped it off at your parents' old place.”

“Her title would be ‘ _Lady,_ ’ Mr. Mallory,” Newt says quietly. He avoids their eyes and steps out into the snow with his apprentice.

“I don’t live at the Graves mansion anymore,” Mr. Graves replies, irritated.

Newt tunes out the rest of their conversation. Beneath the crippling sense of disappointment, he is relieved he had not opened his mouth to ask Mr. Graves to the gala. The Lady of Spain must be very beautiful, he thinks forlornly. She would be a worthy partner for Mr. Graves, who is not only a magnificent dancer, but a humorous and incredibly kind man, and when she finds that out for herself, she would surely-

“ _Mr. Scamander-_ ”

He looks up at the sound of his name. Mr. Graves’ face is thrown into the shadows beneath the lamplight. It had gotten very dark outside, and Newt prays that the man cannot see how red his eyes have become. He opens his mouth before the other man can finish the sentence.

“Thank you for today, Mr. Graves,” The words coming from his mouth sound flat and mechanic. Credence gives him a concerned look, but Newt forces himself to smile, “we can apparate back home from here.”

“Of course. I-” Graves pauses, exhales quietly, and finishes in a somewhat defeated voice, “the pleasure is all mine. Good night, Mr. Scamander, Credence.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. As you can see, Percy's a bit drunk. 
> 
> 2\. I made it that the stores on the street also had a side that catered to the No-Maj community. So if someone wanted to purchase a bespoke suit, they could order from the shop, but it would still take like a month for the No-Maj client to get the suit, even though the house elves can finish within twenty minutes. 
> 
> 3\. Also, Mr. Graves did not ask his date. Remember the old Duchess Tina hit a few weeks ago? It's her granddaughter, so more of an arranged dance partner. Blame Picquery. Wait, no. Blame the guy who asked her first. lol
> 
> Your comments are my greatest motivation! Thank you guys so much for taking the time to write them! I cherish every single one! :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No way he’s asking Boss for the next dance,” Garcia mutters, half-standing in her seat to see over the moving crowd. 
> 
> The four of them watch in tense silence. 
> 
> An odd expression flits over Mr. Graves’ face. Then, as if in slow motion, he slips his fingers into Newt’s waiting palm and rises to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here are a few pictures to go with the names of the Senior Aurors. I sort of had the actors in my head when I was writing them. The one of Jon Hamm in Mad Men is literally what I imagined Lee to be dressed in at the Ball. Haha. Very convenient. 
> 
> Lee: [Jon Hamm](http://vignette1.wikia.nocookie.net/madmen/images/a/ae/Jon-Hamm-EW2_360.jpg/revision/latest?cb=20101217235307) Here's another one [Jon Hamm](http://i.imgur.com/UTcL7Iy.jpg)
> 
> Eisenhower: [Nikolaj Coster-Waldau](http://ilarge.lisimg.com/image/6657758/1118full-nikolaj-coster--waldau.jpg) And here's a picture of him in a suit. [Nikolaj Coster-Waldau](https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/originals/eb/7f/98/eb7f98fac8bd7482710a5af02d85b3bb.jpg)
> 
> Garcia: [Stephanie Beatriz](http://cdn-media.backstage.com/files/media/uploads/zinnia/StephanieBeatriz_1016_JaredKocka.jpg.644x433_q100.jpg)
> 
> Hope that helps with the imagery!

 “They really outdid themselves this year with the decorations,” Tina exclaims when the golden doors of the Woolworth building swing open to reveal the transformed atrium. The dark marble floors had been enchanted a sparkling white to mimic fresh-fallen snow, and golden flowers bloomed beneath every lady’s heel as they hurried across the dance floor, making final touches on things. Tina had arrived twenty minutes early as per her Department Head’s orders. With nothing better to do, Queenie and Newt had agreed to accompany her.

“Oooh, very pretty,” Queenie agrees distractedly, holding out a slender gloved hand to catch the enchanted snow falling silently from above. “I’m glad they got rid of the magic chocolate fountain from last year,” She takes Newt’s arm and pulls him along, “the charm had partially worn off by the end of the ball, so the fountain started flinging scalding chocolate at everyone. It was horrible.”

“Hogwarts has something similar to this,” Newt tilts his head and peers up at the falling snow, clear blue eyes sparkling in the floating candlelight. “The ceiling in the great hall was magicked to mimic the weather outside.”

“Goldstein,” Tina whirls around at the sound of Mr. Graves’ voice. She finds him standing off to the side with Tina’s fellow Aurors from the office and wearing a black trench coat over his fancy tuxedo tails. Hiking the ballgown’s long sapphire train up around her knees, she quickly sprints across the dance floor. Her boss winces and averts his eyes as if he cannot bear the sight of her unladylike manners. Somewhat out of breath, Tina skids to a halt next to Lee, whose hands had shot out to steady her when she wobbled dangerously on her heels.

“Reporting for duty, sir,” Tina snaps a sharp salute. Dressed in a beautiful shoulder-less scarlet gown and her shiny black hair twisted into an elegant bun, Garcia snorts loudly. Tina scowls and adjusts her slipping bodice.

“Ladies, I know I do not emphasize appropriate behavior in the office, but this is a white tie event with very important world leaders attending, please _refrain_ from being your usual unhinged selves,” Mr. Graves pinches the bridge of his nose with a strained expression. Then, addressing the entire team, he says, “this is a time for frivolities, however, we are still members of Law Enforcement, so keep an eye out for any trouble. Pay attention to the shift coverages I sent out yesterday, have your wands close, and be ready to respond with force if necessary. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!” The two dozen or so Aurors answer together.

“Dismissed,” Mr. Graves waves them off. Turning to Tina, he lifts an eyebrow, “where’s your date, Miss Goldstein?”

“Uh, I don’t think he’s here yet,” She grimaces and mumbles miserably down at her gloved hands, “it’s Jerry from Traffic Regulations.”

“ _Good God,_ ” Her boss sucks in a sharp breath, “are you out of your mind, woman?”

“You were the one who said we had to mingle with the other departments, sir,” She can’t quite keep the accusation out of her voice when she looks up and sees genuine pity in Mr. Graves’ dark eyes.

“I was just passing on the instructions from President Picquery, Tina,” He admits, sounding close to apologetic, “but Jerry? Couldn’t you have found someone else? There are more than a thousand men working in this building.”

Tina cringes, “I got a bit caught up in finishing my year-end reports. Jerry asked me, and he looked so pathetic I didn’t have the heart to say no…”

“Well, you only have to dance with him once I suppose,” Mr. Graves says, pausing briefly before continuing, “and I’m sure Mr. Scamander is perfectly willing to keep you company for the rest of the evening.”

Tina follows his gaze and sees Queenie and Newt approaching from behind.

“Miss Goldstein, Mr. Scamander,” Graves nods in greeting. Queenie smiles sweetly and curtsies in her pastel pink gown. Newt hangs his head after a quick peek at the Director of Magical Security.

“You look very nice today, Mr. Scamander,” Mr. Graves says out of the blue, eyes still on Newt. His previously stern expression had softened a little at the sight of the magizoologist.

“You too, Mr. Graves,” Newt replies quietly, keeping his eyes trained resolutely on the ground. Queenie’s smile had turned into an uncertain frown at the strange exchange between the two men.

“Well, I should be going,” Graves says into the awkward silence that had settled over them. “Seraphina will be expecting me soon.”

“Good luck, sir!” Tina calls after him.

“Thank you, Miss Goldstein,” Mr. Graves’ lips lift in a brief mirthless smile. He inclines his head at the trio, “have a great evening.”

 

* * *

 

 _John cleans up very well,_ Tina thinks absently when the Senior Auror weaves his way over to them and hands her a champagne glass. He had shaven his light stubble and slicked his dark blond hair back in a style similar to Mr. Graves. Tina takes a deep drink and heaves a sigh.

“So, Jerry, huh?” Eisenhower leans close and whispers. He winces when Tina grounds her sharp heel into his foot. “I really want to say you should've chosen me, but my survival instincts are screaming at me not to.”

“Listen to them, John,” She hisses back furiously. John bites his lip, blue eyes sparkling with suppressed mirth.

“On a more serious note, you do look lovely tonight, Miss Goldstein,” His smile is genuine when he takes her gloved hand and gently brushes a kiss over her knuckles.

“You’re not too bad yourself, Mr. Eisenhower,” She replies grudgingly, ignoring the small indignant huff from her actual date a few paces away. They are all standing beneath the sweeping silver staircase from which the Madame President and the Department Heads would be ascending from to open the annual MACUSA Winter Ball.

“Tinnie, it’s happening!” Queenie whispers, following the words with a sharp poke from behind. Tina closes her eyes briefly in despair.

When she finally looks up, President Picquery had appeared in the fairy light. Dressed in a sweeping majestic purple ballgown and silver-diamond head wrap, she looks breathtakingly beautiful. Decked in a gold-embroidered tailcoat, the Italian Vice Prime Minister sports a matching rich purple handkerchief in his breast pocket as he escorts her down the stairs. Tina claps politely along with the rest of MACUSA.

Then, she hears a few women around them let out collective dreamy sighs, and Eisenhower nudges her with his elbow with a low impressed whistle, “ _damn._ ”

She peers in the direction he’s pointing. Her Department Head had materialized atop the stairs opposite that of a beautiful dark-haired woman in a sparkling blood-red dress. He bows and offers her his arm. Like the previous pair, Mr. Graves guides his dance partner down the steps, and they come to a stop a few feet from President Picquery. Tina waves a little when he looks in her direction, but he seems to be searching the crowd for someone else. His partner leans over and whispers something in Mr. Graves’ ear, which prompts him to turn his attention back to her. He straightens and does not glance in Tina’s way again.

The enchanted orchestra starts playing when all twenty Department Heads assemble on the dance floor. President Piquery and her partner are the first to move, quickly followed by Mr. Graves and the beautiful woman in red. They are easily the pair that draws the most attention during the entire opening dance. When the first song ends sooner than Tina had expected, Jerry from Traffic Regulations clears his throat and turns to her with grim determination on his face.

“I suggest casting a drying charm on your palms. Good luck, darling girl,” John whispers, and to Tina’s great surprise, presses a quick kiss to her cheek before allowing his scowling date to drag him off.

Whispering a prayer to the heavens above, Tina forces a smile at the short man, curtsies, and takes Jerry’s gloved hand.

 

* * *

 

“Boss’ date is the granddaughter of that old hag Goldstein punched a few weeks ago,” Tina hears Garcia tell the table nonchalantly when she finally manages to extract herself from Jerry’s clammy clutches with the excuse of her Auror shift. She finds the four of them seated at a winged table in one corner, the bright fairy light dangling over the table dimmed under several cloth napkins and a pair of long ladies gloves that Tina strongly suspects belonged to Garcia. There are seven empty champagne glasses on the table and an assortment of food plates.

"I didn't punch her, it was an accident,” She kicks John’s feet off the empty chair.

“Our heroine returns,” Eisenhower greets her with a grin. Tina shudders and tosses her wet gloves in a nearby trash bin before taking a seat next to him. “So, how was the experience?”

“Horrifyingly similar to dancing with a fish,” She nabs his drink and downs it in a single long gulp, adding to the growing pile of empty glasses, “Mercy Lewis, it was like he was melting in front of me.”

“What do you mean?” Newt’s question makes her look up and she blinks. His face is abnormally red, and there’s a faintly glazed look in his blue eyes, and his previously straightened hair has reverted back to its messy curly state.

“Scamander’s had a bit of champagne,” Lee whispers in her ear, “and by 'a bit' I mean the house elves cleared away a small mountain of empty glasses already.”

“What happened?” Tina asks, taken aback. “Where’s my sister? She’s supposed to be with him.”

“Don’t know,” Lee shrugs, eyeing Newt with a worried expression. “We found him guzzling champagne alone. Thought we'd supervise so he doesn't accidentally choke or something.”

Newt rubs at his face vigorously and shakes his head like a wet dog trying to dry itself. He blinks at them blearily, eyes red-rimmed. “’m f-fine, what were you saying, Tina?”

“Uh,” Tina exchanges an uncertain look with Lee and says, “my dance partner was pretty gross.”

“How so...?” He slurs. Newt’s elbow is slowly slipping off the edge of the table. Garcia catches him before he completely collapses and helps him upright again. He pats her gratefully on the shoulder with a vacant smile.

“Hyperhidrosis,” Eisenhower says with a grimace.

“Sorry, what?” Newt asks.

“Jerry’s an excessive sweater,” John clarifies, and they all jump when Newt lets out a loud undignified guffaw and face-plants onto the table with a resounding thunk.

“Ok, I think he’s had _more than enough_ ,” Tina says, tugging the empty champagne glass from Newt’s lax fingers and pulling out her wand for a sobering spell. Something screeches in his breast pocket and a second later, a small green stick-like creature wriggles free. Tina blinks, “Pickett?”

Apparently, the Bowtruckle is hopping mad about being crushed, because he grabs a tiny handful of Newt’s hair and yanks hard. The magizoologist lets out a miserable groan and bats at Pickett blindly. Tina snatches the Bowtruckle away before Newt can cause any unintentional harm. She hands the creature to John who peers at it with a perplexed frown. Pickett doesn’t seem to mind the exchange of ownership and quickly settles down in Eisenhower’s breast pocket, blending in with the flower he’d stuffed in there.

“Don’t accidentally crush him,” Tina advises her inexperienced co-worker, but Eisenhower seems to be a bit of a natural because she spots him slipping the Bowtruckle a piece of apple, a lopsided grin on his face as he watches the tiny green creature gobble up the fruit.

“Hey, look,” Garcia jerks her chin at something on the dance floor. “Boss’ girl is waltzing with somebody else.”

“Where’s Mr. Graves?” Tina squints. Across the table, Newt stirs a little at the sound of Graves’ name. He lifts his head when Lee points a finger and says, “over there sitting with the Madame President and the Vice Prime Minister.”

“Wait, I think those ladies are about to ask him for a dance,” Eisenhower murmurs, and as Tina watches, three women cautiously approach the table where the Director of Magical Security is deep in conversation with Picquery. One of them bends to speak to him while the other two fidget nervously behind her. After a pause, they hurry off, looking a bit hurt. Tina sighs, feeling sorry for the girls and tearing her eyes away from Mr. Graves' scowling face.

“They never know when to quit, do they?” Garcia clicks her tongue, “I doubt Boss would’ve shown up at all if the ball wasn’t mandatory.”

“Yeah, paperwork is a much more tempting mistress,” Lee rolls his eyes and steals a butterflied shrimp from Tina’s plate. They all laugh at his words but end up jumping again when Newt suddenly struggles to his feet and sends his winged chair clattering to the floor. He snatches a champagne glass from a passing house elf and chugs the contents. Then, brushing down his sharp tailcoat and face still extremely flushed, Newt turns resolutely and stalks off like he's heading for the gallows.

The four Aurors are silent for a few seconds as they watch him totter drunkenly through the crowd. Tina bites her lip when Newt knocks into a house elf holding a plate piled high with cream pastries. Miraculously, he doesn’t get any on himself. She cannot say the same for the poor couple standing a few feet away.

“Is he going where I think he’s going?” Garcia asks.

“Toward our demonic Head of Department? Yeah,” Lee answers dryly.

Newt had gotten most of his limbs under control by the time he stops in front of Mr. Graves, who had paused the conversation with Madame Picquery to look at him.

“Oh God, Mr. Graves is going to _destroy_ him, John! What do we do?!” Tina hisses hysterically. Eisenhower winces when she digs her fingers deep into his forearm. Newt bows clumsily and holds out his gloved hand.

“No way he’s asking Boss for the next dance,” Garcia mutters, half-standing in her seat to see over the moving crowd. The four of them watch in tense silence. An odd expression flits over Mr. Graves’ face. Then, as if in slow motion, he slips his fingers into Newt’s waiting palm and rises to his feet.

 _“What the hell?”_ Tina and John breath at the same time.

Newt seems just as stunned by the unexpectedly easy acceptance because he stumbles and almost falls over. Mr. Graves wraps an arm around Newt’s narrow waist to steady him, but the arm stays where it is as he guides the somewhat bewildered magizoologist toward the center of the dance floor. President Picquery appears to have choked on a cream tart because the Italian VPM is patting her carefully on the back, his expression one of mild concern.

“You think Newt cast an Imperius Curse on him?” Garcia asks into the dead silence at their table.

“Nah, ever since Grindelwald, Graves’ kept up a full-body shield charm,” Lee answers absently. “And no potions either, he’s way too cautious.”

But with the alternatives too frightening to contemplate, a hush had fallen over them again. 

Then, Eisenhower suddenly shoots up from his seat, tugging Tina roughly to her feet. “Dance with me, Tina.”

“W-why?” She sputters.

“I’ve got an idea,” Eisenhower says excitedly, dragging her toward the dance floor. He flashes her a devious grin, “but we need to get as close as we can.”

Too curious to refuse, Tina stumbles after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So guess who went and finally registered an account on Pottermore? Me! I took the tests and the results were very interesting. 
> 
> 1\. Apparently, I'm a Ravenclaw in the Hogwarts quiz and a Horned Serpent in the Ilvermorny one, which considering my personality is pretty accurate. lol.  
> 2\. My Patronus is an Eagle. (Haha, matching the Ravenclaw emblem)  
> 3\. My wand is Ash wood with a Phoenix feather core 11 ¾" and hard flexibility. 
> 
> I thought it was super fun. A bit like going back to my childhood years. Fun fact about me, I actually cried when I didn't get a letter via owl post on my 11th birthday. It was very upsetting haha (curse you, JK Rowling). I was a pretty naive child, so it felt like being told that Santa wasn't real all over again. :/
> 
> Feel free to share your houses and Patronus' down below if you'd like. Or whichever house you like. XD


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Mr. Scamander has had too much to drink,” The man mutters with a grimace, “Careful where you put your hands. I’m afraid he threw up during the trip here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been absolutely AMAZING with your feedback and comments and kudos. I am beyond speechless. Thank you all so much for sharing your houses and Patronus' and wands!!! I did not expect so much diversity in the wand materials and Patronus animals.

In all the distracting commotion at the gala, Queenie had snuck back to Jacob’s bakery long before it was scheduled to end. She’s still in her pink ballgown when she bursts through the doors leading to the kitchen and finds Jacob setting the table for four. Credence and the two girls look up, startled.

“Queenie?” Her clueless lover blinks. She had not disclosed the true nature of the event to him, just a few vague words about a ball. Holding up the steaming platter in his arms, Jacob recovers quickly and smiles, “Back a bit early. Are you hungry, darling?”

And the growing restlessness she has being suppressing the entire evening evaporates as Queenie beams back.

“Famished," she replies brightly.

 

* * *

 

“Oww! You stepped on my foot,” Modesty’s yelp of pain quickly turns to giggles. She hops two paces to the left and Credence hastens to follow, his arms full of his younger sibling and apologizing profusely for his mistake. In the background, the music picks up its pace.

“Faster! Faster!” The little girl demands, spinning her brother around the living room.

They had retired to Jacob’s living room after dinner, where Queenie had suggested teaching the two delighted girls and one horrified Credence how to properly dance. She had used Jacob as a demonstration, but the two adults had long sat themselves down on the sofa to watch, and poor Credence had been coerced into partnering up with the two girls who were taking turns dragging him around the room.

“No more, please, Modesty. I’m going to be sick,” Credence’s breathless plea reaches deaf ears. Chastity laughs and claps along with the festive tune, her slender legs drumming happily against the armrest where she’d perched herself next to Queenie and Jacob.

“Modesty sweetie, let your brother rest a bit,” Queenie finally takes pity on the poor boy. She pats the space next to her, and Modesty, still wide-eyed with excitement and panting, charges over and plops down next to them, her hummingbird-like heartbeat pounding against Queenie’s side when she gladly leans in to her embrace. Under Jacob’s kind attention, it had not taken very long for the two girls to come out their weary shells, but it was Queenie that they’d instantly fallen in love with. She'd been very amused when Jacob confessed that the girls had secretly elevated her to the status of “Goddess Supreme.” Now, they took to following her everywhere like a pair of fuzzy ducklings whenever Queenie was in the shop.

“Is Mr. Scamander going to be back soon?” Credence asks when he finally stops panting, but before Queenie can express her guilt for ditching her dance partner, there is the unmistakable muffled crack of someone apparating into the shop downstairs.

“What was that?” Jacob starts, frowning, “did someone break in?”

Queenie stands, exchanges a quick glance with a wide-eyed Credence who seems to have arrived at the same conclusion, and orders a protesting Jacob to stay with the girls before she and Newt’s apprentice rushes down the stairs to investigate.

In all the possible scenarios, Queenie does not anticipate the sight that greets her eyes.

Newt Scamander, their resident magizoologist, shy and reserved Newt, has not only his arms but also his legs wound tightly about the distinctly ruffled form of one Mr. Percival Graves, Tina’s boss and Head of Magical Law Enforcement. His curly head is buried against Mr. Graves’ neck, and as Queenie gawks, the Director stumbles, his gray eyes meeting her hazel ones in the awkward silence.

“A little assistance, Miss Goldstein,” He growls, agitation flaring bright red in his guarded mind when she unconsciously reaches for it.

“Oh goodness, is he alright?” She and Credence fly down the steps, each taking one of Newt’s arms and attempting to pry the Newt-octopus off Mr. Graves’ body. His dark hair had escaped its perfect style, and the tousled strands brush against Newt’s cheek as the magizoologist tightens his grip around Graves’ neck and refuses to let go. Queenie notes that the man had draped his own trench coat over Newt’s body to shield him from the worst of the heavy snow outside.

“Mr. Scamander has had too much to drink,” The man mutters with a grimace, “Careful where you put your hands. I’m afraid he threw up during the trip here.”

Between the three of them, they manage to haul Newt up the two flights of stairs without using any magic. Newt ends up tipping Mr. Graves onto the bed along with Credence, who scrambles out of the way before his master’s arm can wrap around his neck like a noose. The other man is not so lucky.

“Mr. Scamander,” Graves makes a valiant attempt to pin Newt’s flushed face between his hands. Newt smiles dreamily up at him, blue eyes glazed from the alcohol.

“Hi, you," he coos happily.

The Director's frown cracks a little as he insists in a low voice, “please unhand me, Mr. Scamander.”

“But I don’t want you to leave,” To their collective horror, Newt sniffs and tears begin to form in his eyes. Mr. Graves stiffens, the waves of panic emanating from him palpable enough to give Queenie a slight headache.

“Who was that I heard, Queenie? Is it Newt?” Jacob’s voice echoes from the hallway, and a second later, he appears in the doorway leading to Newt’s bedroom, the two girls in tow. “What’s going on?”

“What is he doing here?” Graves demands, twisting to face Jacob.

Newt makes a noise of protest and slings one long leg around the man’s waist, pulling him back down onto the bed. The Director grunts and stumbles, almost losing his balance. Graves steadies himself by planting an arm beside Newt’s head, the other going to tug fruitlessly at the knee pressed against his hip.

“Mr. Scamander, get a hold of yourself,” He grits out through clenched teeth, face starting to redden under everyone’s eyes.

“What the hell is-” Jacob begins, stunned stupid at the sight of the two men grappling on the bed.

“Honey, why don’t you take the girls to their rooms,” Queenie interrupts hurriedly before he can get another word in, “Newt is a bit drunk. Credence love, boil a pot of hot water for me? We'll make a tea to sober him up.”

“Your sister omitted to report that you were back in a relationship with the No-Maj,” Graves says flatly when the four trudge off, leaving Queenie alone with him and Newt, who’s still attempting to crawl into the Director’s lap.

How Mr. Graves manages to look intimidating with Newt grinding against his leg and his neat hair in complete disarray, Queenie does not know, but she replies in an equally hard voice, “I love him, sir. And I won’t let anything keep us apart, not even MACUSA.”

There is a moment of tense silence.

“Does the spell still hold?” He asks instead.

“Yes,” Her voice cracks a little, but her spine stays ramrod straight, “I haven’t done any magic around him, and if it means giving up our world for Jacob, I will gladly do so in a heartbeat.”

To Queenie’s surprise, Graves says quietly, “It won’t come to that, Miss Goldstein.”

For a moment, he lets the walls fall and she feels an echo of his reassurance and grudging respect reverberate inside her own mind. The empty void is back before Queenie can truly touch his consciousness, but Tina’s Department Head drops the topic and goes back to the task of prying Newt’s limbs off his torso.

“You would've made a decent Auror like your sister, Miss Goldstein,” Mr. Graves mutters brusquely when she hurries over to help. So she had not imagined it just now. Shooting him a brief smile, she coaxes the squirming magizoologist back onto the bed.

“ _No, Leta, come back. Please don’t leave me,_ ” Newt says in a tiny broken whisper, his fingers still caught in the Director’s starch collar.

Graves freezes.

Queenie’s head explodes — shock, pain, confusion, dawning understanding, and beneath it all, a soul-crushing hurt that brings tears rushing to her eyes. It takes her a second to comprehend that the sudden metal surge had come from him, the effect amplified by their close proximity. She chokes back a sob, and Mr. Graves recoils, his diamond shirt buttons clacking to the floor as Newt’s hand is forced from his chest.

In all the chaos, Queenie spots an array of dappled feathers on his exposed skin, but Graves' rampaging emotions are back under control in the blink of an eye. Queenie gasps at the sudden brick wall she hits.

“Miss Goldstein, what did I say about trying to use your Legilimency on me?” He turns those dark fathomless eyes on her. There is white-hot anger simmering underneath, she can see it without using her natural-born gift.

“To not to,” Queenie parrots back numbly, her head still reeling from the remnants of his receding sentiments.

“Then _don’t,_ ” He hisses, drawing himself up to his full intimidating height. Definitely angry now. Grave fixes his ripped shirt with an agitated wave of his hand and stalks to the door. “I've done my part, so I will leave Mr. Scamander in your capable hands. Goodnight, Miss Goldstein.”

“Mr. Graves, sir, wait!” Queenie wipes her wet eyes hurriedly and chases after him down the stairs.

“What?” He snaps impatiently, pausing on the landing.

“She was a taker, the woman who hurt him,” Queenie clenches her trembling hands in her skirt and stares straight into his guarded gray eyes, “What Newt needs is a giver, sir.”

Something stirs beneath their dark depth, but Graves merely repeats in a steely voice, “ _Goodnight,_ Miss Goldstein.”

She watches helplessly as he steps out into the snow in his tuxedo tails, the dark fabric merging with the cold night which swallows him in an instant.

 

* * *

 

Frustrated beyond relief, Queenie staggers back up into Newt’s room, fully intent on slapping some sense back into the drunk magizoologist. She finds him fast asleep, his face buried in Mr. Graves’ black trench coat and body curled in on himself like an injured animal. Anger draining from her chest at the sight, Queenie sits down at his bedside and tries to comb through everything she’d seen tonight.

Her eyes fall to Newt’s long slender hands.

Cautious not wake him, Queenie reaches over and takes his right wrist. Taking a deep steadying breath, she rolls back his shirt cuff.

“Oh…” Tears blur her eyes again, smudging the sharp outline of the animal imprinted upon Newt's pale skin.

Queenie is very familiar with the panther-like creature. The Head of Magical Law Enforcement had never been stingy in sending messages along with his silver Wampus Patronus to the other Departments.

 _He must’ve known somehow,_ she thinks sadly, _poor Mr. Graves._

Queenie had never liked Tina’s boss, what with his ability to make her older sister hyperventilate like an asthmatic child with a single look, but she finds herself feeling sorry for the man now. There is movement in the corner of her vision and her eyes land on the smiling face of Leta Lestrange, her pretty face full of devious mischief as she peers out from the picture Newt had so lovingly set down upon his bedside drawer. Glaring furiously at the smirking girl, Queenie flips the frame down so that it lay flat on the table.

Then, with a miserable sigh, she makes her way downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember the angst I mentioned a few chapters back? Well, this is it. :P 
> 
> The dance will be featured in flashbacks because I think it would be better to execute it that way. Don't worry! 
> 
> Update: I will try to update after I've survived my first week of the new semester, but feel free to pop me a message if I forget, which I might, due to the heavy course load. Or shout encouragements, which is always welcomed. Lord knows how stress always sucks away my inspiration... *summersaults into the bushes*


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think I’m in love with you.”
> 
> Scamander had confessed in a barely audible whisper, soft voice wistful and pale blue eyes clear despite his drunken state, and in that moment, Graves had allowed himself to believe, had experienced the illogical rush of warm euphoria best described as affection. Then, Scamander had promptly bent down and retched all over his shoes, and things had only gone downhill from there.

He had made the singularly foolish mistake in letting his walls down.

It had been natural human instinct to harbor curiosity toward the man who’d freed him from Grindelwald’s imprisonment. Graves’ interest had been further fueled by the fact that the awkward lanky magizoologist just happened to be the younger brother Theseus kept repeatedly bringing up in their numerous formal correspondences over the years. He should not have fed that initial fascination and let it grow, because as mild and harmless as Scamander appeared to be, his presence had the same effect as that of the highly invasive English Ivy, quickly sinking in its roots and filling every crevice of Graves’ life until he could no longer recall the days without the man.

Last night had been the culmination of his mistakes. Graves had allowed his heart to take the reigns when he accepted Scamander’s request for a dance. It had led to a stroll in the enchanted garden where Scamander had babbled a highly entertaining story about sand fairies, and…

_“I think I’m in love with you.”_

Scamander had confessed in a barely audible whisper, soft voice wistful and pale blue eyes clear despite his drunken state, and in that moment, Graves had allowed himself to believe, had experienced the illogical rush of warm euphoria best described as affection. Then, Scamander had promptly bent down and retched all over his shoes, and things had only gone downhill from there.

“Sir, you’re bleeding,” Tina’s stricken stutter pulls Graves from his morose thoughts. The left side of his face burns like hellfire, and when Graves presses fingers against his cheek, they come away bright red with blood.

“I’m fine,” He replies shortly, stowing his wand and taking the silk handkerchief offered by one of his Aurors, a man by the name of James Morrison. Still dressed in his fancy tuxedo tails like everyone else, Morrison goes back to securing the four wizards they had finally cornered at the edge of the East River after five hours of city-wide manhunt. Last night, shortly after he’d escorted Scamander home, Graves had arrived back at the Woolworth building just in time to witness an attempted assault on MACUSA. The Aurors on duty had disarmed and Stunned most of the attackers, but a handful had successfully apparated away from the premises before Picquery could cast the defensive wards, which was why Graves had personally headed the manhunt to find the escapees.

The one that had slashed Graves’ face with a wayward curse bares her teeth at the Director when Lee yanks her roughly to her feet. Graves meets the woman's dark eyes head on, keeping his stony expression neutral as one by one, the Senior Aurors apparate back to headquarters with their captured criminals in tow.

“Mr. Graves, I really think you should have that looked at,” Tina insists, her eyes wide with worry and face ghostly pale in the weak light of the winter sun. The pain has faded to a numb tingling sensation from the frigid wind whipping relentlessly around them.

“I said I was fine,” Graves tears his eyes away from the roiling gray water of the East River and turns to her, “there are more important things to deal with at the moment, Tina.”

She heaves a sigh but does not argue when he disapparates with a sharp crack.

 

* * *

 

Graves cleans the dried blood from his face as best as he can before healing the long gash with a spell. The remnants of pink swirls down the drain along with the cold water flowing from the bronze eagle-head tap. Graves splashes some more water over the healed skin and takes a few deep breaths. When he looks into the bathroom mirror, there are heavy purple smudges beneath his dark gray eyes and the shadows of a stubble beginning to form along his clean-shaven jaw. Shooting a self-deprecating smile at his tired reflection, Graves smoothes his hair back and straightens his spine.

There is more work to do, and he does not have time to yearn for someone who would never be his.

 

* * *

 

The Aurors hand in the wand identification results, and just as Graves had feared, the majority of last night's culprits are foreigners, with two disgruntled former MACUSA employees in the mix, which complicates things beyond mere domestic terrorism. He is standing by the desk in his office, deep in conversation with President Picquery and the entirety of his Senior Aurors when the doors to Graves' office creak open. As one, they turn to face the interruption, and Graves’ heart flutters to his throat at the sight of the flustered magizoologist standing rooted to the spot, red crawling rapidly up his bent collar under the sudden unexpected attention.

“I, uh,” Scamander’s left hand spasms in the general direction of the outer office, “the Junior Intern said I c-could just come in…” He trails off, panicked blue eyes flickering briefly to Graves’ frowning face. “I’m dreadfully sorry, I should go-” he peters off before whispering, “oh, you are hurt, Mr. Graves.”

“What?” Graves blinks, taken aback at the sudden change of topic.

“There’s blood on your collar,” Mr. Scamander says with a pained expression. Graves follows the direction of his gaze and peers down at the splotch of brown on his lapel.

“It’s not mine,” he lies smoothly, but Scamander does not look convinced.

President Picquery clears her throat and breaks the awkward silence that had quickly settled over them, “What do you need, Mr. Scamander?”

Scamander stiffens before squaring his shoulders and opening his mouth.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Graves,” He admits quietly.

“Alone,” The man adds when no-one moves.

Graves’ frown deepens when what appears to be a fierce silent elbowing match happens between Eisenhower and Goldstein at the words. Picquery raises an expectant eyebrow at him, and heaving an exhausted sigh, he steps from behind the desk and motions for Mr. Scamander to follow him outside.

“Who was it?” There is the unmistakable flutter of anger beneath the mild tone when the magizoologist next speaks, and Graves scowls as they come to a stop in an empty corridor.

“I cannot divulge details of the case to a civilian, Mr. Scamander,” He points out briskly, regretting it instantly when Scamander recoils like he’d been slapped in the face.

“I,” The magizoologist swallows thickly and says in a low wounded voice, “I worry, is all.”

“I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself in a duel,” Graves murmurs, making a valiant effort to keep the cold aloof mask in place. “Now, what do you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Scamander?”

“I would l-like to apologize for my inappropriate behavior last night,” Scamander wrings his hands nervously and stares resolutely down at Graves’ shiny oxfords. "I was told that I made a thorough fool of myself in your presence."

“I should be the one to apologize, Mr. Scamander,” He replies mechanically. Scamander frowns in confusion, but Graves continues resolutely, “my behavior was out of line at the tailors that night, and I assure you it will never happen again.” The light seems to dim in those blue eyes, but Graves continues with that flat politeness, "You are an honored guest at MACUSA, and as the Head of Magical Law Enforcement, it is my duty to make your experience here in America an enjoyable one.”

"Oh, I-I," Scamander looks disappointed, of all things. Something in Graves’ chest aches at the sight, but he suppresses the feeling and clears his throat.

“I’m afraid I must be going, Mr. Scamander,” He brushes past the magizoologist, who seems to be lost in his own thoughts. Graves is at the end of the hallway when he pauses, sighs, and reluctantly turns back to face the brunet man, “if you must know, there was an attack last night after you’d left. We arrested the majority, but a few stragglers managed to escape. Luckily, we tracked them down in the end.”

“Let me guess, they did not come quietly?” Scamander asks, eyes flickering to the dried blood on Graves’ shirt again.

“No, they did not.” He replies.

“I-” Mr. Scamander bites his lip and looks away, but when he raises his head again, there is a miserable little smile on his pale freckled face.

“Please be careful, sir,” he finally says.

“I will,” The dull agony flares in Graves' chest as he recites numbly, “Thank you, Mr. Scamander.”

 

* * *

 

“Habibi, what is wrong?” Bastet appears the moment Newt stumbles down the ladder into his disorganized study. He avoids meeting her intelligent gaze and busies himself with locating the pouch of moon pellets he keeps in a nearby drawer. He ignores Dogal when the Demiguise leaps onto the desk and peers at him with those huge concerned eyes. They follow closely behind as Newt ducks under the tent flap and slips into the forest sanctuary.

“Newton,” comes the rumbling growl.

Newt stops throwing the gravity-defying pellets at the excited mooncalves and drops down to sit in the grass. The mooncalf babies settle in a loose semicircle around him, hooting and chirping softly. Shooting the Sphinx and his Demiguise an apologetic smile, Newt pats the empty space beside him and Bastet curls her warm body close to him, her long lion-like tail brushing comfortingly along his skin. Dogal settles for climbing in Newt’s lap and wrapping both arms around his neck.

“I don’t know, Bastet,” Newt finally whispers, staring down at the lush green grass in the clearing.

For him, the night of the ball had been a confusing blur of sound and color. Queenie had gone back to the bakery sometime after the third dance, and after refusing one lady and two men’s requests to dance, Newt had sat down at a table partially concealed by a giant potted plant. He remembers downing drink after drink, bitterly jealous of the woman in Graves’ arms. And then…

Before he knew what he was doing, Newt had come to a stop in front of the Director of Magical Security, tearing him rather rudely from his conversation with the Madame President, but Mr. Graves had smiled at him when Newt clumsily offered his hand and asked for the next dance. The man had kept his eyes solely upon Newt the entire time, and if Newt hadn’t been so drunk, he would’ve tried to outperform Mr. Graves’ last dance partner, but the reality had been him stumbling into Tina’s Department Head and accidentally stepping on the man's feet so many times he’d lost count. The Director had been extremely patient with Newt, his large hands reassuring and gentle as he guided them through the basic steps, occasionally whispering encouragements in Newt’s ear. Newt had dissolved into a puddle of happy contentment in Graves’ arms by the end of the second dance, not even caring about the strange looks he’d been receiving from a nearby Tina.

As far as Newt could remember, everything had been absolutely perfect last night. So what had gone wrong? Why had Mr. Graves been so detached today?

_I assure you it will never happen again._

Truth is, Newt _wants_ it to happen again.

“Newt, are you down here?” Queenie’s sudden voice makes him jump and seconds later, the blonde woman appears behind the trees, her pale beautiful face uncharacteristically serious.

“Queenie?”

She had gone back to MACUSA before Newt had woken from his drunken slumber, so Credence had been the one to disclose the embarrassing incident last night.

Settling beside him in a flurry of pink silk, she takes one of Newt’s hands and asks tensely, “What do you remember?”

Frowning, he answers slowly, “not much. Credence told me I behaved very inappropriately.” He bites his lip and looks away from her, “I went to apologize this morning as soon as I heard, but Mr. Graves seemed quite…upset with me, I-”

“You asked him to stay last night,” Queenie murmurs wearily. Newt’s eyes widen at her words. She squeezes his hand between hers and continues reluctantly, “you also called him Leta.”

Newt’s heart sinks.

“Oh.”

Bastet hisses at the sound of Leta's name, but he does not react. Newt sits there in stupefied horror, appalled at what he’d done.

“Newt, honey,” Queenie cups his cheeks to catch his attention, and Newt focuses on the sound of her voice with some difficulty.

“Yes?” He whispers hoarsely.

“What is the shape of your Patronus?” She asks timidly, and he blinks away the hot moisture blurring his vision as he stutters.

“It’s a s-serpent,” Newt wipes at his blotchy face hurriedly and asks, “why?”

Queenie frowns.

“Does the serpent happen to have feathers?” She asks after a pause.

He shakes his head wordlessly, and the hopeful anticipation dies in her lovely green eyes.

Newt thinks he understands the implication of her question, and despite dreading her answer, he stills finds himself asking the awful question.

“Mr. Graves' mark is something with feathers, isn’t it?”

“Oh, sweetheart, we Americans do not believe in these silly things,” Queenie forces out a fake laugh and quickly averts her gaze so he does not see the sorrow in her eyes. "If you truly...care for him, you should not let that get in the way of things."

Her avoidance is as good as a “yes.”

Newt sucks in a sharp pained breath and wraps trembling fingers around his right wrist.

“I see.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I seriously need all the love. It has become increasingly hard to keep writing. School work has sucked away most of my inspiration for the story, to be honest. 
> 
> I am still not satisfied with this chapter, but if I don't post it, it's going to be stuck here until July.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to speed things along a bit so I can finish this piece sooner. I admit, I did leave out a few fun details, and there's actually three versions of this chapter that I had been working on but ended up tossing. Like the previous chapter, I'm not very satisfied, but things around me have been very stressful recently, and I have a feeling it will only get worse. 
> 
> Hope this update will at least brighten a few people's day, so enjoy.

The holiday season tend to be a stressful time for MACUSA, especially the Magical Restriction and Detection Office, which unfortunately falls under the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Decorations often get a little otherworldly when it comes to Christmas for many wizarding families, and each year, Graves has to send out dozens of employees from the MR&D Office to knock on doors and kindly (forcefully) remind the occupants of the MACUSA Statute of Secrecy.

This year is no different. The days leading to the end of the year bring about a flurry of paperwork and arrests that has Graves pulling continuous all-nighters at the office along with a few of the senior staff. With no one expecting him at home, Graves had taken to transfiguring the leather couch in his office into a bed whenever he needed to sleep. As much as he hates busywork, the motions do keep his mind off of certain…individuals, for which Graves is immensely grateful.

The night of Christmas Eve is a snowy one, and the thick fluffy white flecks swirl in a restless pattern outside the magicked floor-to-ceiling window of Graves’ office. He is signing off a thick stack of fine tickets for the Improper Use of Magic Office when the door clicks open and Seraphina, her long blond hair tumbling down her shoulders in perfect golden curls, strides in with a familiar bottle of fiery amber liquid in her left hand.

“ _President Picquery_ , as much as I honor our atrocious traditions, I am afraid that this year I truly must decline…” He begins seriously, setting the fountain pen down and steepling his fingers. Wordlessly, Seraphina raises a chiseled brow and swishes the contents of her bottle in his face. Graves sighs and conjures up a plush armchair for her.

“Very well,” He surrenders, pushing the paperwork away and taking out two crystal glasses.

“Knew you’d see it my way, _Director Graves_ ,” Smirking broadly, she settles down next to him and pours them both a generous amount of dragon whiskey. He keeps his mouth shut when Seraphina throws her long legs over his desk. Instead, Graves takes a cautious sip from his glass and bites down the pained grunt as the hot liquid rolls down his esophagus.

“Dragon whiskey is a banned substance, Madame President,” he croaks when he finally regains function of his tongue muscles again. Seraphina just smiles and clinks their glasses together.

“Once a year, Percy,” She says, dropping her head back against the armchair, “folks like us need to unwind and let our hair down…”

He hums noncommittally, and for a while they drink in companionable silence. The drink is quite potent because a hot heavy contentment had settled inside Graves’ skull after just the first glass, and under Seraphina’s amused gaze, he loosens his tie and shrugs out of the restricting waistcoat before leaning back in his own chair.

“You know, I’ve received several ‘anonymous’ complaints about you over the past week,” She says conversationally, “word is that there's a black list every year, and if you’re on it, say goodbye to your Christmas Eve. I assume those out there tonight are the poor children on your list, Father Christmas?”

“What do you expect?” He mutters defensively, “this department doesn’t run itself.”

“A little bird also told me that your Senior Aurors got in trouble two days ago?” Seraphina’s eyes are alarmingly clear for a woman who’s downed three glasses of dragon whiskey already.

He snorts dismissively, “they decided that it was a good idea to use Scamander and his case of beasts as an interrogation technique.”

“Well, it worked, didn’t it? The terrorists confessed.”

“Scamander is a _civilian,_ ” Graves says, eyes narrowing. Seraphina raises her eyebrow.

"He is a grown man who used to _tame dragons_ , Director Graves," she reminds him patiently, “and is currently under MACUSA employment."

"Yes, but his responsibilities extend only to that of providing materials for the apocatheries, not to be exposed to terrorists and dark wizards who could cause him harm!” Graves realizes he’s said too much a second too late, and the awkward silence that settles brings heat to his face. Seraphina hides her knowing smile behind the wide rim of her glass as she sips leisurely at the drink.

“Do you know why I ran for President, Percival?” Lifting her crystal glass to the light, Seraphina asks suddenly.

“Because you wanted power, like everyone else who’s slaving away in this building,” Graves replies sarcastically.

“I wish it were that simple,” Her smile is a wistful one, and he sobers slightly at the sight. “Out of the four Houses, I chose the Horned Serpent because, at the time, I wanted nothing more than to become a teacher, to pass on the magic arts to the younger generation, Percy. It was such a noble profession.”

“What made you change your mind?” Graves asks, intrigued despite himself. Seraphina has never voluntarily divulged such an intimate detail of her life before. She had been in her last year and already a legend at Ilvermorny by the time Graves had enrolled.

“One night in my sixth year, I woke up in the middle of the night, and at first it felt like the _Cruciatus Curse_ ,” Seraphina's eyes take on a faraway look as she recalls the memory, “the pain was so physical I thought I was going to die. There were foreign emotions coursing through my head, sadness, regret, fear, and beneath it all, a deep desperate love.” She chuckles and peers down at the shimmering bangles around her elegant wrists, “believing it the result of a dark curse, my roommates took me to the infirmary where the healers performed their routine check, but they could not find anything wrong, so after a night of observations, the healers let me go.”

“What happened?” Graves frowns.

“It wasn’t until I saw what had happened to my wrist that I understood,” Seraphina pulls the sleeve of her left arm up to expose clean unmarred skin, a sad little smile lingering at her lips, “there was a lion here before, a magnificent thing it was,” she traces a fingertip over the invisible pattern, “and when I went back and dug up the newspapers from that morning after, there was an article in the Times about a massive loss in the front-line where British wizards were assisting the No-Maj with the war.”

“You think he was one of the wizards who died for his country?”

“I don’t know,” Frowning a little, Seraphina peers out into the heavy snow, “but I know he tried to reach for me in his last few moments, and I felt him in my head. That was why I decided to pursue a position at MACUSA. Not because I wanted power, but because I don’t want another person to have to go through that again.”

Graves does not speak. Their glasses are empty, but he makes no move to refill them.

“I fully support our views on soul marks here in the U.S., but we all have a bit of helpless romantic in ourselves, don’t we?” She tucks a loose curl behind her ear and smiles at him, really looks Graves in the eyes for the first time that night, and he sees the girl Seraphina could have been beneath the tough exterior of the Madame President.

“Seraphina,” He begins, but she cuts him off by standing and clearing her throat.

“It’s been a pleasure spending the past couple of Christmases with you and your miserable scowl as company, Percy,” She declares, eyes shining fiercely. “However, I do have a feeling that I will not be returning next year, or to be exact, you won’t be.”

 _“Are you firing me?”_ Graves asks after a pause, his voice incredulous.

“For someone so brilliant, you can be so dense, Perce.” Laughing, Seraphina pats his cheek affectionately, “follow your heart sometimes. You just might like the results.”

Leaving Graves completely baffled, she heads for the door.

“Seraphina, your illegal drink,” He reminds, pointing to the giant bottle of dragon whiskey on the corner of his desk.

“Keep it,” The most powerful woman in the American Wizarding World answers breezily, “it’ll help dislodge that stick up your ass.”

The door slams behind her with a bang.

 

* * *

 

On the morning of Christmas, the piercing shriek of a giant eagle owl startles Graves out of his uneasy slumber. Squinting through the bleary haze and gritting his teeth against the massive hangover headache throbbing between his eyes, Graves spots the pile of presents by the fireplace. Muttering a low curse, he swipes a hand over his face and performs a quick healing spell that leaves him feeling marginally better.

_“Ouch!”_

The huge bird that had somehow bypassed MACUSA security pecks Graves sharply on the thumb to catch his attention. It flaps its left wing at the neat parcel on his desk and lets out another ear-splitting shriek. Bringing the bleeding digit to his lips, Graves pulls out his wand wearily. It had sadly been so common for the previous men in his position to be met with an untimely death via "Cursed Object in the Christmas Present Pile” that he’d been given a special five-hour seminar on the subject of curse detection prior to taking the job.

Graves draws in a sharp breath when he unwraps the parcel to reveal a familiar silver pocket watch lying in a velvet-lined box. He had assumed that his grandfather’s old watch had been misplaced sometime during the Grindelwald impersonation. Although Graves was well-aware that it had stopped working years ago, it had kept him company ever since his father’s death. A small black-and-white photo of his smiling mother had been secured to the inside of the lid by a young Graves, and for a long long time after their death, it had been the only picture of his deceased parents he could bear to look at.

_Tick, tick, tick._

The sound is loud in the blanketing silence of Graves' office. With unsteady fingers, he unlatches the polished silver lid and stares down at the smiling face of his mother. The hands of the clock are moving so smoothly it almost seems like the watch had never broken years ago when a Killing Curse had rebounded off of it, saving his grandfather’s life. He unfolds the piece of parchment that had come with the package and skims over the neat spidery writing.

**_...Niffler stole...  
_**

**_...Mr. Kowalski’s second-cousin…rather accomplished clockmaker…_ **

**_…_ _ **a** pologize for the lateness...could not find a good time to return…_ **

**_…all the grievances I have caused you…_ **

And at the bottom of the page, signed:

 **_Yours,_ **  
**_N. Scamander._ **

“Mine, huh?” Graves murmurs at the unimpressed owl who nips at his fingers again. Frowning at the vicious bird, he tucks the watch into his pocket and straightens just in time to see his second-in-command burst into his office, looking a bit wild around the eyes from the night’s work.

“Sir, you need to come down to Holdings,” Eisenhower says breathlessly.

“What for?” Graves asks, ignoring the owl when it nudges at his palm for attention. He steps away from the desk before it can peck him again.

For once, Eisenhower looks dead-serious when he says, “it’s about Grindelwald. The delegation of Aurors from the International Confederation of Wizards arrived three hours ago. President Picquery gave jurisdiction over to them, but Grindelwald says he will only speak to you, sir.”

His stomach clenches with nausea at the idea of confronting the dark wizard again, but Graves reaches into his pocket and touches the warm metal of the watch. He makes his decision in a heartbeat.

“Lead the way then, John.”

 

* * *

 

Grindelwald lifts his head the moment Graves passes the security measures outside of the interrogation chamber and comes to a stop behind the bound man. The dark wizard cocks his head to the side, like that of a shark latching onto the scent of blood. Then,without turning around, Gellert Grindelwald's thin colorless lips curl into a mocking smile.

“Willing to see me at last, _Director?_ ” His soft lilting tones carry easily in the cold bare room.

Grindelwald’s body language is relaxed, almost languid. The way he sits, more like a king lounging atop his throne than a man bound to the floor in magical chains. There is the end of what looks like the inky tail feathers of a great bird along his left forearm where the sleeve is rolled up to expose pale skin. Grindelwald leaves it bared for the world to see, an act of obvious defiance and indifference. Graves thinks it strange that a man of such evil intentions could ever be destined for someone. He wonders if the other even knows, is even aware that somewhere out there, the instinctive tugging, the longing in their chest, would lead them to Gellert Grindelwald, the notorious dark wizard and international terrorist.

Rounding the table, Graves unbuttons his suit jacket, pulls out a fountain pen, and sits down. “You have five minutes, Mr. Grindelwald.”

“Tell me, Percival, how is the boy doing?” Grindelwald’s smile widens as he leans forward, voice dropping to a low rumbling purr. “You’ve left him with your intended, have you not?”

Graves’ blood runs cold. All of his senses zone in on the wretched man sitting opposite him. “What did you say, Mr. Grindelwald?” He asks very quietly.

“The way he defended you that night,” Gellert Grindelwald sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes fluttering shut at the memory as he caressed the spot where Newt had hit him, “For such a shy introverted man, Mr. Scamander sure packs a hard punch, doesn’t he?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” Graves keeps his voice steady. “You said you were going to tell me about your people’s activities on U.S. soil."

Grindelwald laughs, low and harsh. “Don’t try to change the subject, Percival. You should’ve seen the way he had looked when he first saw me in your disguise, the heartbreak and pain,” He clicks his tongue, a contemplative look on his face, “He is a rather fine specimen, come to think of it. Beautiful, even. With the Obscurus at his beck and call, Mr. Scamander would make a fine centerpiece to my collection.”

Rage, dark and roiling, rises uncontrollably within Graves’ chest at the words. His hands had unconsciously balled into fists, and the sharp edge of the fountain pen is digging painfully into the flesh of his palm, but he pays the discomfort no mind, furious gray eyes boring into the cold cruel ones of Grindelwald.

“You still can’t bring yourself to accept it, can you? That night he found you, Mr. Graves. Did you not find it odd that a competent wizard such as I would miss my mark with every spell that I cast with your wand? You know very well that a wizard’s wand would never harm the wielder of their intended’s wand,” Grindelwald purrs. “If I’m not mistaken, you had Mr. Scamander’s wand at the time, did you not?” Graves feels the blood drain from his face at the words. The dark wizard smirks knowingly. “But for such a sharp astute man, you would never miss anything that substantial. All of this denial, Percival,” He clicks his tongue and shakes his head with mock pity, “You hesitate to approach him thinking you’d ruin something so pure, something so good. You are right, of course. Me, however, I find innocence quite delicious...”

“Don’t you dare touch him,” He’s on his feet in an instant, original purpose forgotten and angry fingers twisting into the collar of Grindelwald’s shirt before he can stop himself. “Or I will rip you from limb to limb, Grindelwald, see if I don't.”

“Will you, Percival?” Grindelwald wheezes when he tightens his grip warningly. “Or will you watch on helplessly while I slowly destroy what you love the most?”

Graves punches him.

He feels the sickening crunch of bone beneath his fist. Blood flows freely down Grindelwald’s chin as he collapses back into his chair and begins to laugh. Shaking with white-hot fury, the Head of Magical Law Enforcement grabs his suit jacket and steps quickly from the interrogation room. The Aurors from the ICW are gaping open-mouthed at him.

“Director Graves, what the hell do you think you’re doing?!” Seraphina’s angry expression quickly turns to concern when she catches sight of his ashen face. “Percy, what’s wrong? What did he say to you?”

“I need the rest of the day off, Madame President,” He avoids her eyes and quickly makes his way out of the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really appreciate those who took the time to write me a thoughtful comment. I haven't been able to reply to many of them, but know that I have read them over and over again, and this chapter is the result of those encouragements. So, if you really enjoyed my writing, I'd love to hear from you. Thank you guys.
> 
> Almost forgot! The amazing thegreencarousel made this awesome piece of fanart for this fic! You can see it here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/9450071


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is about Scamander,” He admits reluctantly. Graves takes a shuddering breath and continues in a defeated voice, "I can't stop thinking about him. I worry, nonstop, when he's with his vile creatures, whether he's eating enough. The blasted man has put a spell on me.” 
> 
> "Oh, Percy, you stubborn boy," Helena sighs, “you know, where I came from, there’s a word for that.”
> 
> He frowns at her and demands, “well, what is it, then?” 
> 
> “Love,” Helena reaches over and takes his hand between her warm dry ones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your motivating comments and support really mean alot to me. Here's another chapter! Enjoy!

The sky outside MACUSA headquarters echoes Graves’ foul mood, dark heavy clouds with occasional flashes of bright light within their depth. He does not bother with a water-proofing spell when he sets off for nowhere in particular. The weight of the freezing-cold rain grounds him, but the burning agitation in his chest does not go away. Grindelwald's mocking smirk continues to taunt him, that cold calculating face seared into the back of Graves' eyelids.

He finds himself at Helena’s cottage door without even realizing where his feet had taken him.

“Oh, Percy,” She sighs when her eyes land on his rain-soaked clothes.

 

* * *

 

Several drying spells and two cups of hot tea later, she herds him to the living room.

“You are going to wear a trench into my carpets if you keep pacing like that,” Helena’s airy voice interrupts Graves’ chaotic thoughts, and he pauses in front of the fireplace, turning to face the old woman. Helena takes a slow sip of tea and asks casually, “this is about the Scamander boy, isn’t it?”

“How?” His eyes narrow in suspicion.

“Grandmother’s intuition, child. And besides, you’ve never brought people outside of work over, so I figured he must be quite important,” Helena answers calmly. She sticks the end of her stolen wand into her teacup and stirs the hot liquid, ignoring his disgusted look. Then, tilting her head to the ceiling, she murmurs in a contemplative voice, “I do believe that I am the only person alive who can distinguish between your infatuated face and intense constipation, Percy.”

He glares at her and folds his arms defensively over his chest.

“Come here, child. Tell me what is bothering you,” Patting the spot next to her, his grandmother smiles invitingly. Graves sits down with a heavy exhale.

“It is about Scamander,” He admits reluctantly. Graves takes a shuddering breath and continues in a defeated voice, "I can't stop thinking about him. I worry, nonstop, when he's with his vile creatures, whether he's eating enough. The blasted man has put a spell on me.”

"Oh, Percy, you stubborn boy," Helena sighs, “you know, where I came from, there’s a word for that.”

He frowns at her and demands, “well, what is it, then?”

“Love,” Helena reaches over and takes his hand between her warm dry ones.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t love him,” Graves scoffs at the ludicrous idea. He glances away from her sad knowing smile. “Percy, you would not believe how similar you are to your father. He also resisted the idea of soulmates with his entire being.”

“He and mother married because of political reasons, did they not?” Despite his annoyance at the comparison, Graves cannot help feeling curious.

“No,” Helena shakes her head, “they were meant to be.”

“How?” He can no longer keep the incredulity out of his voice. “He was always working, and he never treated her the way she did him.”

In all of Graves' memories, he could not recall one instance where Edward had been the one to initiate the affection. His mother had been the one who had poured all her love into the austere man Graves had called father.

“He loved her in his own way. Your father worked so hard in Magical Law Enforcement all those years because of her, because he wanted to make this dark dangerous world a safe place for those he loved. That was his devotion to your mother,” Helena says kindly, "and you, Percy.”

Blindly, Graves gropes for his cup of tea. It had gone cold during the conversation, but he gulps it down anyway, at a loss for what to do.

Helena chuckles at his reaction and leans close, honey brown eyes twinkling with affection, “you know, Perce, your 'level-headed' father actually crashed your mother's engagement party to another man and challenged him to a duel for her hand. Your mother was so angry she Stunned them both.”

Graves chokes on the dregs of his tea.

“He courted her for two years before she finally said yes. You should’ve seen how happy he was,” Her smile is wistful when she looks down at her wrinkled hands and murmurs, “So you see, why fight it when you are clearly meant to be? Why force your heart to make a free ‘choice’ when it so evidently already has chosen?”

A soft silence settles over them, and Graves watches in confusion as Helena stands and makes her way over to the shelf where she kept the family album. The old woman comes back with a handsomely crafted box with the Graves family crest engraved in silver.

“I have been waiting for the chance to give this to you, Percy,” Helena lifts the lid and pulls out a small plain black box. “I wore it once, your mother wore it. I promised her I would give it to you one day when you finally find your intended. I think it’s time, don’t you?”

Graves feels his stomach drop at the sight of the black band with the family motto inscribed within the velvet-lined box. He has a similar ring in the shape of a snarling Wampus head with ruby red eyes he had inherited from his father. This one is slimmer, yet no less powerful.

His fingers close around the small ring box. Graves swallows and Helena smiles encouragingly at him. The Director of Magical Security frowns and blurts out “this is all quite preposterous” before he can stop himself.

“You really are no fun at all, dear. That poor sweet boy, having to deal with you,” Helena’s smile transforms into a scowl. She whips out her stolen wand with surprisingly agility and pokes the sharp end into his cheek, “Now get out of my house before I hex you.”

Suppressing the strong urge to confiscate the irritating thing, Graves does as he is told.

 

* * *

 

He apparates into the empty alley two streets down from Kowalski’s Bakery. Graves tries to prolong the short walk as much as humanly possibly, but he still finds himself standing at the cheerfully decorated shop front in ten minutes. It seems like the horrible weather has influenced the turnout today, because there are only a handful of customers lazing around in the interior of the bakery. A little bell dings when Graves cautiously pushes his way inside and a blast of sweet-scented hot air hits his cold face. The tiny blond girl standing by a display case lifts her head just as the man behind the cash register sees Graves. Recognition dawns in the No-Maj’s face.

“Are you here to see Mr. Scamander?” To Graves’s surprise, the girl is the first to speak, quickly sidestepping a few customers with the ease of someone who has navigated heavier crowd before.

“Scamander?” Jacob Kowalski frowns, “but he’s not-”

A loud clang interrupts the plump baker before he can finish his sentence, and a slightly older girl ducks out from inside the kitchen, the left side of her face covered in flour and sneezing uncontrollably. Kowalski rushes over to her, but not before she catches sight of Graves standing out horribly in the handful of people in his black overcoat and suit. A faint smirk curls the corners of her lips as she allows a worried Kowalski to escort her back out of sight.

Graves jumps slightly when small fingers touch the palm of his left hand. The tiny blond girl shoots him a gap-toothed smile and takes his hand in hers.

“I’m Modesty,” She introduces brightly.

He knows. Graves has read Tina’s extensive reports on the Barebones children. 

“Percival,” He replies, allowing the small child who barely reached his hip, to drag him toward the staircase in the back.

“Mr. Scamander’s upstairs in his room,” Modesty explains quickly, “Mr. Kowalski must’ve missed him coming back in.”

She deposits him outside Scamander’s door and raps the stained wood smartly with her knuckles. Then, lifting her head to peer at him, she says, “it was nice meeting you today, Percival.”

Under Graves’ bewildered gaze, she skips down the stairs and disappears from sight just as the door creaks open to reveal Credence standing on the other side in a pair of rumpled overalls and his wand tucked behind one ear.

“Credence?”

“Mr. G-graves,” The boy blinks, looking terribly taken aback at the sight of him.

Graves clears his throat and tries his best to keep up the MACUSA official tone as he says, “may I speak to Mr. Scamander? It is a matter of utmost urgency.”

The boy gives an odd little twitch at the name, and for a fraction of a second, Graves thinks he glimpses a strand of hair lifting on Credence’s head as if some invisible thing had tugged quickly to get his attention.

“Umm, I’m afraid you can’t, Mr. Graves,” Credence says in a thin reedy voice, what little color in his cheeks draining away as Graves frowns.

“What do you mean I can’t?” Surely Scamander isn’t so petty as to refuse to see him entirely.

Another aborted jerk. Credence coughs and clutches at the hems of his shirt. “He can’t because-”

Something thumps loudly behind Scamander’s apprentice, and a threatening roar sounds from somewhere within. Graves draws his wand as he pushes his way past the boy.

“Where is he?” He demands, worry overtaking annoyance at the sight of the messy room. His eyes land on the strips of bloodied cloth on the floor. Credence follows the direction of his gaze.

“He’s inside the case, sir,” The boy stammers, looking flustered.

“Is he injured?” Graves asks tensely, rounding on Credence.

“What? No. I mean, I t-think so, y-yes,” The boy stumbles over his words, dark eyes darting away nervously.

His pulse skyrockets at the words. In hind sight, Graves should’ve recognized the classic signs of an inexperienced liar on Credence, the stutter, absence of eye-contact, compulsive fidgeting, etc. But with the Grindelwald encounter still fresh on his mind, he quickly jumps to the worst case scenario. Everything else forgotten, Graves unlatches the case with a flick of his wand and descends the rickety ladder.

It is very dark inside the organized chaos of Scamander’s case.

“Mr. Scamander, where are you?” Graves calls out quietly, lighting his wand tip with a silent incantation. No one answers. Images of the young man lying dead in a pool of crimson blood flash before Graves’ eyes.

“ _Newt, answer me!_ ” He can’t keep the panic from his voice any longer. Rounding the corner, Graves steps into what looks like Mr. Scamander’s makeshift bedroom. From the white light of his wand tip, he spots a vaguely humanoid lump lying with its back facing him.

“Mr. Scamander?” Graves rushes forward and pulls the sheets from the figure’s body. He blinks down at the bed for a few seconds, unable to fully process what he's seeing. One of the round cabbages slowly rolls off the bed with a dull thud. Graves follows it with his eyes, his brain struggling to connect the dots.

Then, a sudden weight descends upon his shoulders, an invisible arm materializing from thin air as Scamander’s blasted Demiguise snatches his wand out of his hand. A quick puff of scented gas hits Graves’ face, and the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, the next chapter is going to be the climax! This slowburn is driving me up the wall too, but character development, guys. Btw, the kids and the creatures were planning something behind Newt's back to help him bag his man. 
> 
> Pop me a comment to motivate me to write faster. Cheers. :)


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I would very much like to kiss you, Mr. Scamander," His thumb brushes gently over the corner of Newt's lips. 
> 
> "But you just said-" Heat rises to his cheeks.
> 
> "Please."

“Apartment’s empty, no signs of a struggle, heading back to the Woolworth building now…” Eisenhower’s voice fades as the silver peacock vanish into thin air, leaving the two grim-faced Aurors standing in the cold empty alley. Tina looks up when she hears the sharp crack of someone apparating into the empty alley. Newt, his freckled face pale and drawn with worry, stows his wand and hurries over to them.

“Have you found him?” He asks immediately.

“No,” Lee growls, dropping his fifth cigarette butt and grounding it out beneath an agitated boot. Newt’s face falls.

“Isabel says Grindelwald refuses to reveal what he’d said to Mr. Graves to evoke such a violent reaction,” Tina bites her lip and shakes some of the moisture off of her coat. “It’s been four hours since we’ve lost contact with him, and John says the apartment lead turned up empty, too.”

“Maybe he’s just gone out for a drink and we’re merely overthinking things,” Lee tries to say, but Newt’s eyes had wandered to the end of the alley leading out into the busy streets of Manhattan. A small frail lady dressed in a lavender coat and pale pink shawl hobbles past, her purse cradled in the crook of her elbow.

“Helena,” Newt breathes.

“What?” Lee squints after the old woman, confused.

“His grandmother, Mr. Lee, did you check with his grandmother?” Newt asks impatiently.

“No,” Tina answers, her eyes lighting up.

“Lead the way then, Mr. Scamander,” Lee says, brushing rain off his coat and pushing the brim of his hat lower over his face. The three of them apparate from the alley with a sharp crack, leaving behind a small pile of cigarette butts floating in a puddle of rainwater.

 

* * *

 

Lately, Jacob has noticed an air of general melancholy hanging about his tenant Mr. Scamander. The man had taken to shutting himself within his rooms for hours on end and judging by the wild halo of tangled brown hair Jacob had mistaken for an animal pelt atop Scamander's head, seemed to have given up on keeping up his physical appearances. Credence, who had bustled down the stairs with heaps of dirty laundry and empty plates one afternoon, had informed Jacob in a somewhat forlorn voice that his master was, in fact, heartbroken. Over what the boy had not elaborated on, but Jacob had a feeling that it had something to do with the handsome dark-haired bloke who had stormed out of his bakery a few nights ago.

That same bloke had shown up Jacob’s bakery an hour previous, his expression one of grim determination. He’d stood out horribly against the backdrop of cream and pink colors in his black trench coat and sharp suit. Jacob’d just about made up his mind to step around the counter and give the man a piece of his mind when Chastity inhaled nearly an entire bag of flour up her lungs in the kitchen and had to be escorted outside for a quick breather. The mysterious man had gone by the time he led the red-faced, teary-eyed young girl back inside, but Jacob had a nagging feeling the man hadn’t really left, which was why he found himself standing in front of Scamander’s closed door with a mince pie in one hand and the other lifted in the process of knocking. The mince pie was for backup, to be used as an emergency weapon or a peace offering. Which had yet to be decided.

Trying not to let his imagination leap to the worst case scenario, Jacob clears his throat and calls out loudly.

“Sir, if you are looking for Mr. Scamander, I told you he left hours ag-”

The door creaks open slowly, and Jacob stares at the gap, at a loss for how to further proceed. The baker has only stepped into Scamander’s abode once (four nights ago), but the messy room is surprisingly empty. To his slight relief, the dark-haired man is not there.

Either is Scamander for that matter.

His bed looks like it hasn’t been slept in for a while and there is a writing desk pushed against the window, a thick leather-bound volume spilling out pieces of parchment paper all over the glossy surface. Jacob’s curiosity wins over, and setting the pie on a nearby cabinet, he wanders over to the notes. From the snippets of conversation with Queenie, Jacob knows Mr. Scamander is a scientist of some sort, most likely a biologist, but nothing prepares him for the charcoal sketches strewn across the sheets. He catches sight of a black platypus-like animal drawn on one piece of cream-colored parchment, thin slanted cursive writing labeling the creature’s anatomy in detailed words, and snippets of a conversation from long ago come to mind.

 _It is a Niffler. His name is Clyde,_ Credence had said.

Something in the nearby closet suddenly rattles and Jacob jumps, his heart pounding as cold sweat breaks over the skin of his palms. He approaches cautiously and with one jerk of his wrist, throws open the doors.

A terribly familiar brown suitcase, battered and worn with use, lies innocently inside the empty closet.

Fresh sweat forms along Jacob’s brow, and a heavy sense of déjà vu hits him. Something scratches at the back of his mind, a distant echo of memory. Jacob doesn’t know what makes him reach out and unlatch the case, nor does he understand why he opens his mouth and tentatively calls out —

“Mr. Scamander?”

There is a silent pause. Jacob’s heart thuds heavily within his chest. The odd impulse is gradually being replaced with mortified embarrassment.

Then, something lets out a loud piercing shriek and he catches a brief glimpse of a pink porcupine-like creature before it leaps out of the surprisingly bottomless case and latches onto Jacob’s face like an angry lamprey.

 

* * *

 

Credence jumps so hard he nearly loses his footing when he hears Mr. Kowalski’s voice float down from above, shortly followed by a panicked screech and the low painful thud of flesh meeting floor. Sparing a brief glance at the unconscious form of Mr. Graves, Credence turns to the Sphinx circling the man’s body. Bastet makes a show of slow licking her lips and baring her long wicked-looking fangs.

“Please please please don’t eat him, I beg of you, Bastet. Just give me one minute to deal with this,” Credence moans before tucking his wand between his teeth and scurrying up the ladder to check on the situation outside. He finds Mr. Kowalski lying on his back on the floor, his eyes tightly shut and sweat soaking into the neck of his shirt where-

Credence winces when he spots the raw red wound in the junction where neck meets shoulder. The Murtlap, which had apparently lashed out when Mr. Kowalski had opened the lid of the case, was a few feet away, and judging by the enthusiastic slurping grunts, busy devouring what looked to be a pie of sorts.

“Mr. Kowalski?” Credence asks, tentatively putting a hand on the man’s shoulder. The plump baker’s eyelids flutter open, and slowly, comprehension seems to dawn upon him. Then, to Credence’s surprise, he flinches sharply and throws out a hand, his chin trembling with distress and fright.

“Stay away from me!”

“Mr. Kowalski, it's me, Credence.” He holds up his hands in the universal gesture of goodwill. “It’s ok, you’re safe.”

"Credence? What's going on? We heard shouting." The door to the room flies open once more to reveal the two breathless girls. Jacob gives a high-pitched startled shriek when he spots then, but relief quickly surfaces as he groans, “Girls, thank god you are both safe. We’ve been living with the Obscurus under the roof all this time!”

That word, coupled with the manic expression in Mr. Kowalski's eyes makes Credence's stomach clench in dread. There is no mistaking it. Their Mr. No-Maj landlord, the man whom the three children had grown so fond of, the man who'd served as a father to them, has his memories back. But before Credence or his siblings can speak, Jacob’s rapid retreating foot lands atop Credence's wand that had somehow found its way to the floor, and with a resounding thud, the plump baker lands firmly on his backside, the back of his head connecting solidly  with the floorboards. Both Credence and the two girls scramble forward to assist the disoriented man, and in the struggle, Chastity catches sight of the angry pink wounds on the side of the man’s neck. Meeting her brother's distressed eyes over the top of Mr. Kolwalski’s head, she swallows thickly.

“Murtlap bites are usually mild, right?" Modesty points out quickly, breaking the dreadful silence that had settled over them all, “Mr. Scamander said that.”

“Unless the individual is allergic,” Credence replies uneasily, blowing a strand of sweaty hair out of his face as he struggles with the weight of the slipping man, “then the side effects could include flames shooting from the anus!”

“But those symptoms show up quite early, don’t they? He seems fine to me, just a bit clammy,” Chastity tries to smile reassuringly as she adds, “Mr. Kowalski's been bitten by Kevin before. There is no need to wor-”

The scent of burning cloth reaches both of their noses at the same time, and in the next second, a thick pillar of red-hot flames erupt from the seat of the baker’s pants, setting the thick cream-colored drapes behind Jacob dramatically on fire as the man goes limp in their arms. Credence turns his accusatory glare on the two girls.

“He had beans for lunch. _Beans!_ ” He shouts at his sisters, left sleeve on fire.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell does she feed these things?” Lee shakes the gnome off of his left leg and lifts up the fabric to inspect the damage. A few droplets of blood wells up and he grimaces, exchanging a dark look with Tina as Newt rings the doorbell leading to Helena’s cottage.

“Well, this is rather unexpected,” The old woman says when she opens the door. Her expression takes on a frustrated edge when she sighs and asks Newt, “Darling boy, did Percy not remove his head from his ass even after that talk?”

Newt blinks, “I beg your pardon, ma’am?”

“I was hoping he’d drop by and have a bit of chat with you, Newton dear.”

“You mean Mr. Graves’ headed to the bakery?” He asks, heart suddenly leaping toward his throat.

“We should go, then,” says Tina, but the old woman smiles and places a warm wrinkled hand over her’s and says, “perhaps Newton should go alone this time.”

“Why?” Lee asks, frowning. Newt’s cheeks heat up under Helena’s knowing gaze.

“Well, you’re seriously wounded, young man,” She says, putting on a grim face as she turns to the Senior Auror, “if we don’t get that treated soon, it could require amputation, trust me, dear, I used to run a hospital.”

“W-what?” The little color drains from Lee’s handsome face.

“Come, come,” Helena shuffles out of the way when Tina escorts her coworker inside.

“It’s just a gnome bite,” Newt points out in a hushed voice, but she winks at him and presses a finger to his lips.

“Shh, don’t ruin my fun, Newton,” Helena swats at him, her brown eyes twinkling with mischief, “Now, go knock some sense into my grandson for me.”

Suppressing his smile, Newt turns on the spot and Apparates.

 

* * *

 

“We’re going to get thrown out into the streets again,” Credence yells, chucking the last of the water onto the flames and watching them go out with a hiss. The room smells of burnt sheets and the two girls are still coughing.

“What do we do?” Modesty asks when he drops down to sit next to her. Mr. Kowalski is still out cold, lying on his side and an extra bucket placed strategically against his buttocks just in case flames decide to shoot from his rear end again.

“We get him downstairs before Mr. Scamander gets back,” Chastity says firmly. “Credence, do you know the antidote for the Murtlap venom?”

Her brother nods wordlessly, his face still chalky pale.

“Ok, make the antidote. Modesty and I will take care of the body.”

“Don’t call him that,” Credence mutters, struggling to his feet.

“What about Percival?” Modesty pipes up suddenly, and the two older children freeze.

“He’s still here?!” Chastity whirls around.

“Yeah,” Credence bites his lip, “Dougal and the others sort of, uh, kidnapped him.”

“What?!! This wasn’t part of the plan!”

“Where is he?” Modesty asks with surprising tranquility.

“Down in the case with Bastet,” Credence answers reluctantly.

Somewhere downstairs, a bell jingles. Eyes widening in alarm, they spring into action, each grabbing one of the unconscious baker’s limbs.

“Quickly! Before Mr. Scamander sees!”

 

* * *

 

The children are curiously absent when Newt arrives back at the bakery. There is a small line of customers waiting at the checkout counter. He tells them to leave the money by the register and runs up the flights of stairs leading to his room. The strong scent of fire and ash hits his senses and Newt pulls his wand from his pocket, fearing for the worst when he bursts through the doors to the bedroom.

It’s empty, but the curtains by the window are burnt beyond recognition and there’s a half-empty pie dish lying at the foot of the wooden cabinet next to the writing desk. A trail of jam-crusted paw prints lead from the dish to the closet where he keeps the magical suitcase. Newt pulls open the doors and unlatches the clasps.

He comes down the ladder just in time to spot Dogal slowly unzip Mr. Graves’ trousers.

Newt sways unsteadily on his feet.

The Director of Magical Security, one of the most powerful wizards in MACUSA history, is bound to one of Newt’s rickety home-made chair and gagged with his own tie, his immaculate dress shirt ripped open to reveal bare skin, and his trousers-

“Dogal, what do you think you’re doing?!” His voice cracks hysterically on the last note.

Mr. Graves’ eyes are half-wild when he looks up and sees Newt. Relief registers on his flushed face and he sags in the chair, a low muffled groan escaping past the tie stuffed in his mouth.

“I am so sorry, Mr. Graves, I don’t know what is happening, but please don’t take my children away from me. They’re not dangerous, they didn’t mean to,” The babble of words tumble out on auto-pilot as Newt hurriedly shoos the Demiguise off of Graves’ lap and pulls a small sharp knife from his pant pocket. A vein throbs in Mr. Graves’ temple, and he begins to struggle violently once more, a slew of muffled angry-sounding grunts leaking from his gagged mouth.

Newt internally braces himself and pulls the tie out.

“-assaulting a goddamn MACUSA federal agent and kidnapping-” They overbalance, and Mr. Graves’ considerable weight lands upon Newt’s unprotected chest, knocking the wind out of him and sending the knife clattering from his fingers. His face is mashed into Newt’s neck, hot breath sending shivers down the magizoologist's spine. The position is rather awkward, considering the current state of Mr. Graves’ half-destroyed clothes and how close they are pressed to each other.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Graves,” Newt says quietly into the ringing silence, “for everything.”

 _“Are you?”_ Graves’ voice is dripping with sarcasm.

“Yes,” He is so close, the warmth radiating from his skin seeping through the thin layers of Newt’s shirt. The question that has been lingering at the edge of his conscious mind since the beginning slips from his lips without permission. “Do you regret ever meeting me, Mr. Graves?”

Graves’ labored pants hitch to a sudden stop. Newt can feel the quick pounding of his heart through their chests.

“I do, sometimes. Regret knowing your existence,” Newt confesses into the silence. “It hurts, finding out, the helpless attraction, and the inevitable rejection.” He huffs out a gentle laugh, “One does not yearn unaware, Mr. Graves. At times, I envy the ignorant, don’t you? ”

The ropes loosen around Graves’ wrists and ankles. Dogal shoots him an apologetic look and vanishes into thin air. Newt gently coaxes the Director of Magical Security into an upright position, careful to avoid the man’s eyes. His other mischievous children had scattered along with Dogal, leaving the two of them uncomfortably alone.

“I do believe it is time for me to plan another expedition,” Newt keeps his voice light as he stands, and with immense difficulty, turns his back to his intended, “South America holds many exciting adventures ahead. Credence will love Brazil, I’m sure of it.”

“Where were you?” Graves asks quietly, completely out of the blue.

Newt hesitates before answering, “Out searching for you with Tina. President Picquery said you broke Grindelwald’s nose during the interrogation and left without a word this afternoon. They couldn’t reach you...I was very worried.”

“I rejected you, and yet you still care?” Mr. Graves’ voice is flat. Newt’s chest constricts painfully at the bluntness of his words.

“As is the character of a Hufflepuff,” He recites numbly, “we are givers by nature.”

"Even if it pains you to do so?"

“Yes.” Despite his best efforts, tears blur Newt’s vision.

“I suppose that makes you braver than the rest of us, doesn’t it?” Mr. Graves mutters into the silence, and Newt chokes back the bitter laugh threatening to explode from his lungs. Brave, not quite, but foolish? Yes.

“You said before, that Griffins are fiercely loyal to those they call family, Mr. Scamander,” Graves’ quiet voice is right behind him when he next speaks. Newt's fingers curl unconsciously into the hem of his wrinkled shirt. “Do you consider me family?”

“Oh Mr. Graves,” His watery smile is fond when he finally turns to face the man and says sadly, “you were always a part of my family.”

The other man's dark eyes reveal nothing when he next speaks. "Do you wish to know why I hit Grindelwald today?"

A bit taken aback by the question, Newt says, "Yes, I suppose."

"He threatened to harm you."

They stare at each other in silence for the longest moment. The palm of Mr. Graves' hand is warm and dry when he tentatively cups Newt’s tear-stained cheek. "Mr. Scamander, may I request the permission to kiss you?"

Newt stares up at him, “w-what-"

"I would very much like to kiss you, Mr. Scamander," His thumb brushes gently over the corner of Newt's lips.

"But you just said-" Heat rises to his cheeks.

"Please."

Newt's eyes flutter shut as he nods shakily. Gentle fingers settle over the back of his neck, Mr. Graves lifting his chin up with the other hand and-

A fleeting brush of lips against his. Warmth, heavy and content, settles in the pit of Newt’s stomach at the contact. The kiss feels like coming home after a long, exhausting day, all of his weariness shed like a heavy cloak, leaving him feeling lighter than air. Newt sighs into the kiss and pushes forward in a silent plea for more. For such a dominating man, Mr. Graves’ touches are painstakingly tender when he coaxes Newt’s lips open for a deeper kiss. Newt parts them eagerly. He has waited for this moment his entire life.

“What’s wrong?” Graves pulls back, brows drawn in concern. “Have I hurt you?”

Newt shakes his head violently, but the salty tears keep coming, spilling silently from his eyes and running down his flushed cheeks. He clings to the man, his tears soaking into Mr. Graves’ shirt as he rubs a comforting hand along Newt’s spine.

 _“Don’t stop,”_ He pleads quietly, feeling Graves’ warm hand settle on the back of his neck. Newt lifts his head and parts his lips.

“I won’t,” Mr. Graves promises and closes the distance, "ever again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the big moment people have been waiting for! School has been brutal and I haven't had much free time at all. Drop me a comment!
> 
> November 2017 Update: Not abandoned, but I am going through a rough patch at the moment, so updates come when they do.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fantastic Things and how to keep track of them](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8688994) by [nonamemanga](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nonamemanga/pseuds/nonamemanga)
  * [Cover Art for To Build A Home](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9243821) by [Thurifut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thurifut/pseuds/Thurifut)




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